


An Everyday Sunrise

by andimeantittosting (Saylee)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Alternate Universe - Historical, Cartoon Villainy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Mob Politics, No one is a rooster, Rock Star Dean Winchester, Rock-a-doodle - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-07 11:30:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19084126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting
Summary: Dean Winchester loves his family farm, until a falling out with his father forces him out of his home and off to the glittering City. Now, John Winchester is dead, and the farm is in danger of being sold to unscrupulous developer Dick Roman. Dean’s nephew, Jack, knows that his uncle is the only person who can save the farm, so he sets off for the big city to bring Dean back.But bringing Dean home is going to be easier said than done. These days, Dean is a disillusioned rockstar, living in a gilded cage controlled by notorious mob boss Fergus Crowley. He finds an ally in his prickly PA Castiel. But Crowley and Roman are in bed together in other ways, and neither wants Dean to return to the farm.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for the SPN Movie Big Bang, and spent most of its life with the working title 'Not Rooster Elvis'. It is very loosely based on the cartoon movie [Rock-a-Doodle](https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0102802/)—let me challenge myself, I said; it will be fun, I said—and owes much of the silliness within to that movie. Fun fact: Rock-a-doodle was actually based on a play called Chantecler by Edmond Rostand, a.k.a. the guy who wrote Cyrano de Bergerac.
> 
> Thank you to the wonderful SPN MBB mods for such a fun, friendly challenge, and to [Alfiescribbles](https://alfiescribbles.tumblr.com/) for the amazing art, which is embedded in the fic! Be sure to check out the [art masterpost](https://alfiescribbles.tumblr.com/post/185512425891/heres-my-spn-movie-big-bang-art-for) and leave some love. I also owe many thanks to [MalMuses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses) for alpha-reading and encouraging the completion of this fic, and to [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz) for beta-reading.
> 
>  **Artist's note:** This has been one of the most fun fics I’ve ever had the pleasure to draw for. It’s such a beautiful read, and just the descriptions of scenery alone gave me so much inspiration. Hope you guys all love the fic as much as I enjoyed reading and drawing for it! You can find more of my art on tumblr as [@alfiescribbles](https://alfiescribbles.tumblr.com/).

_ EXT. BARNYARD—DAY _

_ A bright, sunny day. A cheerful, yellow farmhouse stands to one side, with a shiny red barn, to the other. The barnyard is surrounded by a wooden fence. Healthy, happy animals can be seen, and farmhands working in the background - BOBBY—a grizzled, older man—and CHARLIE—a bright, redheaded young woman. Beyond are healthy-looking fields of crops. In the foreground, DEAN WINCHESTER introduces his young nephew JACK (eight years old) to one of the cows. _

“Want to learn how to milk her?”

Jack giggles at the velvety feel of the cow’s nose under his hand, then glances with large eyes at his uncle.

“It’s okay, kiddo.” Dean correctly guesses the problem. “You’re allowed to laugh. I’m sure your mom would want you to.” He pats the cow’s side with a sure hand. “Do you know, I raised Baby here from a calf. I bet, if you can learn how to milk a cow, you might get to raise a calf all of your own.”

Jack’s wide eyes are for an entirely different reason this time. “Yes, please,” he whispers.

Dean’s smile matches the sunny day. “Awesome. Let me show you how it’s done.” He sets out a pail and a low stool, taking the seat first to demonstrate. When Jack catches on (and after Dean shows off by shooting a stream of milk straight into Jack’s waiting mouth), they switch spots, Dean’s steady hands guiding Jack’s smaller ones.

It takes Jack a couple cautious tries, but soon he has a steady stream into the bucket. “Uncle Dean, look!” He grins wide and proud.

“Good job,” Dean assures him. “We’ll make a country boy of you yet.”

_ ***** _

 

_ EXT. CEMETERY—DAY _

_ A smallish, rural cemetery, on a grey, rainy day. A small group, dressed for a funeral, stands around an open grave. SAM WINCHESTER - tall, overly long hair, careworn - stands with his hand on his son’s shoulder. He is burying his father today. JACK WINCHESTER is now a thirteen-year-old boy, looking uncomfortable in slightly too small formal clothes. Also present are a PASTOR; the farmhands, BOBBY and CHARLIE, in their Sunday best, Charlie currently uncharacteristically solemn; and GABRIEL, a family friend of sorts, also uncharacteristically solemn, and rather too well-dressed and urbane for small-town life. _

Jack has vague memories of his Uncle Dean. He remembers smiling eyes, a casual bow legged stride, and strong, capable hands. He remembers sitting by his knee in the evenings, listening as Dean strummed a battered, old acoustic guitar. He remembers gentleness when he was lost and mourning, and patience as Dean introduced him to the land, to the farm he loved.

He also remembers shouting. First from Dean and the oily man in the suit, and then later, when Jack was supposed to be asleep, between Dean and Grandpa John. He remembers a loud crash and a slammed door and Grandpa John shouting, “Get the hell off my farm.”

And then uncle Dean was gone.

He wasn’t gone in the way Jack’s mom was gone, his dad had hastened to assure him. But he had left the farm, and the longer he stayed away, the more clear it was he wasn’t coming back.

And he hadn’t. 

He hadn’t even come back for Grandpa John’s funeral. Jack had thought he might. Standing under the big, black umbrella while the rain pours down and the pastor drones on, he whispers as much to his dad.

His dad shakes his head at him imperceptibly. Don’t interrupt the service.

A few years ago, Jack had got it in his head to learn to play the guitar like his uncle, but he’d never turned up the well-loved instrument. He wonders if it had been tucked away where it couldn’t bring back memories, or if Uncle Dean had taken it with him.

The pastor’s voice draws his attention back. Jack glances around at the small gathering. It’s just him and his dad, Uncle Gabe, and the farmhands, Bobby and Charlie, all slowly soaking through. No one from town—John Winchester had spent too many years having falling outs with one person after another. Including his older son.

Jack shuts his mouth, holds a hand out into the downpour. When it comes time to toss a handful of soil onto the coffin, it lands with a muddy splat. He rubs his hand clean on his nice pants. His dad lays a large hand on his shoulder, where it sits heavy, and steers him back towards the car.

*****

 

_ INT. KITCHEN—NIGHT _

_ A midcentury farmhouse kitchen. Whitewashed walls, simple appliances, uncluttered counters, with the exception of a chipped, ceramic cookie jar. There is a large window over the sink. The curtains are currently closed. A door on one side of the room leads to the root cellar stairs. A wooden table and chairs sit off to one corner, lit by an overhead lamp. SAM sits at this table. _

Jack asks about his uncle again that night when he comes downstairs for a glass of water and finds his father seated at the kitchen table, head in his hands. He’s bent over a ledger, illuminated by a dull, yellow circle from the overhead light.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Can I help?”

Sam Winchester raises his large, shaggy head to look at his son in some surprise.

“Hey, Jack.” He clears his throat. “What are you doing downstairs?”

Jack tilts his head, not ready to be dissuaded from his questions. “Just getting some water. What are you doing?”

“Oh, uh.” His dad runs a hand through his too-long hair, his face creased in that way that means he’s worried and pretending not to be. “I’m just going over some numbers. Say, what would you think about selling the farm, moving to the City? That would be exciting for you, huh?”

“Sell the farm?” Jack is startled. “But why?” His eyes dart involuntarily to the ledger his father is trying to hide. “Are we bankrupt? The Braedens went bankrupt before they moved away.” He and Ben Braeden used to play together. He misses him sometimes.

“We’re not bankrupt,” his dad hastens to assure him, though his forehead doesn’t lose its tension. “The thing is, I never intended to be a farmer. You know I was a lawyer, before your mom, well—

“Before she died,” Jack supplies.

“Yes,” his dad agrees. “After that, I thought we both needed to come back here, and it’s been good for us, but Dean was really the one who wanted this life. He loved this farm.” He sighs heavily, turning the ledger in his hands. “He’d know how to turn this around,” he adds under his breath. Jack gets the distinct sense that he wasn’t meant to hear that. But there is one thing he can ask about.

“But why  _ hasn’t _ he come back?” he asks. “Not even for the funeral?”

Sam pulls himself to his feet, as if his body is weighed down with sand bags, and ruffles Jack’s hair, even though Jack’s too old for that, really. “Jack, buddy, he didn’t come because he didn’t know about it. I couldn’t tell him, because I don’t know where he is.”

*****

 

_ INT. THE INFERNO (NIGHTCLUB)—NIGHT _

_ A nightclub stage, brightly lit with neon and globe lights. DEAN WINCHESTER, a rockstar, now known as the King, performs, clad in tight jeans, a spangled leather jacket, and a red bandana around his neck. Beyond, the well-dressed audience are seated at circular tables, drinking cocktails. Behind the wings of the stage stand FERGUS CROWLEY, a businessman, criminal kingpin, and owner of the nightclub and the hotel/casino it is in; and CASTIEL NOVAK, stoic and serious, holding a hand towel. He is Dean’s personal assistant and Crowley’s reluctant employee. A maze of corridors stretch between Backstage and Dean's personal dressing room. _

As it turns out, at that precise moment the Jack is asking his father about Dean, Dean Winchester—or rather, the King—is swivelling his hips on a glittering stage, crooning his latest hit for a screaming crowd. He sings, he winks, he throws his bandana to a swooning girl, and when he finally disappears backstage, he lets the grin drop into a scowl as he accepts a towel from his new assistant. Idly, he notices, as he always does, that the man is attractive, with his tousled hair and piercing blue eyes. If only he didn’t always look so stern. As it is, he’s distinctly out of place in this glittering club.

“That is the dumbest fucking song I ever heard,” Dean informs the shorter, suit-clad man—his manager, and incidentally, the owner of the entire establishment, Fergus Crowley—who turns up at his elbow, as he mops the sweat from his face. “ _ Rockadoodle all through the night _ ? I mean, really?” His assistant makes a choked off noise, quickly stifled as Dean shoves the sweat-soaked towel back into his hands without so much as a backwards glance. “And that other one,  _ Treasure-hunting for your love _ ? Please.”

Dean blows a raspberry, striding down the twisting corridors that make up backstage in the Inferno, Crowley’s exclusive nightclub and casino, not bothering to check to see if either man is keeping up with him.

“And you think you could do better?” Crowley asks, doing his best not to show that he is struggling to match the pace set by Dean and easily matched by his stone-faced, dark-haired assistant.

“A monkey with a typewriter could do better,” Dean counters, coming to a stop outside his dressing room door, conveniently marked with a giant gold star.

The assistant folds his hands and waits. Crowley has no such intention of letting Dean call the shots. “Look, Squirrel, I like you. But your fans just aren’t looking for sweet, corn-fed ballads. They want showstoppers. Bigger, better, flashier! Trust me. You’ve got the looks, the voice—the hips. You don’t need to be the brains.” He pats Dean on the shoulder in an avuncular fashion. “Now, I have things to do, people to fleece, so be a good little rockstar and go rest those vocal chords.”

“Thanks for the advice.” Dean rolls his eyes and opens his door. Pausing in the entry, he points a finger at the dark-haired man still waiting stoically behind his boss. “And I don’t need no personal assistance, so you can just run on home, or whatever it is you do. Toodles.” He wiggles his fingers in a mockery of a wave and slams the door between them.

*****

 

_ INT. CROWLEY’S OFFICE—NIGHT _

_ A luxuriously appointed office, heavy baroque furniture, plush armchairs, a massive desk with a large, leather desk chair that dwarfs the other chairs in the room, a gilt-framed portrait of CROWLEY. A decanter of scotch and a set of crystal glasses sit on one corner of the desk. The room clearly illustrates that Crowley is a man who values his own comfort and importance above all else. _

“That man is an ass.” Castiel scowls as he sinks into one of the plush armchairs in Crowley’s office. The entire space is a baroque nightmare, Crowley liking to style himself as some sort of king. An enormous portrait of the man himself hangs over the ornate desk. “You can’t really expect me to ‘personally assist’ him.”

Crowley lounges in his enormous desk chair, pouring himself a finger of scotch, not bothering to offer his guest any. “Now, now, darling. You’re hardly in any place to be complaining. Not when I helped you out of that spot of bother with your brother.”

“I’m not saying I don’t owe you.” Castiel swallows down his revulsion. “I’m saying that surely there’s something I could do that isn’t seeing to the whims of that cocky assbutt.”

Crowley raises one supercilious eyebrow. “Assbutt, Castiel, really?”

Castiel ignores the jibe. “He was right about one thing, though. That song is a travesty. What does Marv have on you, for you to keep using his lyrics?” It wasn’t really a question. Marv might style himself the next musical writing icon, but his main job was doing Crowley’s books—or rather, cooking the books. No doubt, he had information that could put Crowley away for a long time, even if his songs ought to be the real crime.

Castiel should know. His one ambition had been to write songs, himself. An ambition he would have been better off chasing, rather than getting into that mess with his family, landing himself here, beholden to Crowley of all people.

But there were limits. If he left town, kept a low profile, kept his mouth shut, would Raphael really come after him? Did he really need Crowley’s protection that badly?

“I’ll make you a deal,” Crowley interrupts his thoughts. He steeples his fingers in front of his face in a way that makes him look like an overdramatic villain from a movie.

“Making deals with you is exactly how I ended up here,” Castiel snaps.

Crowley waves a hand. “Oh, this isn’t that kind of deal. All I need is for you to keep working with Winchester. Keep him happy. Be his friend. Hell, ‘ _ personally assist _ ’ him if that’ll do it. I have too much money tied up in him to risk him walking. You get to stay under my personal protection if Raphael comes calling.”

“This is a terrible deal.”

“I’m not finished,” Crowley interrupts smoothly. “Do it, and I’ll let you write his next song. If it’s a hit, I’ll let you write more. What do you say?”

Well. Truly escaping from his family’s long reach is probably a pipe dream anyway. He resigns himself. “I’ll do it.”


	2. Chapter 2

_ INT. THE INFERNO HALLWAY / DRESSING ROOM—DAY _

_CASTIEL stands_ _in a backstage hallway, outside a wooden door marked with a large gold star, and the name “The King”. On the other side of the door is DEAN’s dressing room. No comfort is spared, though it is not as imposing as Crowley’s office. One wall features a dressing table and a mirror lined in bulbs, beside which stand racks of costumes. A long sofa stretches across another wall, with a low coffee table on top, and a well-appointed wet bar to one side. A mostly-empty bottle of whiskey stands on the coffee table, along with a used glass. Across from the hallway door is another door, this one leading to an ensuite bathroom._

The thing about Dean Winchester is that while he might be an ass, he’s got a rich, melodic voice that is a dream to write for. Castiel is determined to write something that will show off his skill. Unfortunately, if he ever wants Winchester to sing it, he has to hold up his end of the deal and befriend the man.

It’s easier said than done. Castiel is not the sort of man who’s ever excelled at making friends. He’s awkward and grumpy, and has enough secrets that he comes off as a closed book to everyone he meets. Add to that his general distaste for Winchester, and, well—

“Oh, it’s you.” Dean Winchester opens his dressing room door to Castiel’s knock at two in the afternoon. His hair is dishevelled, there are creases on his face from his pillow, and he has the air of a man who is only not hungover because he’s still drunk. He leaves the door open and crosses back across the room in order to collapse onto the couch.

“Yes.” Castiel finds himself swallowing awkwardly, still standing in the doorway. “It’s me.”

Because the other thing about Dean Winchester is that, while he might be an ass, and he’s definitely a mess, he’s also stupidly beautiful.

Castiel hates him.

“C’mon in, then. Do your thing. Assist me.” Winchester drops his head back against the cushions with a groan.

“Shall I assist you with coffee or with a shower?” Castiel asks acerbically, forgetting for a moment that he’s supposed to befriend the man. “Because clearly, you need both.”

To his surprise, Winchester lets out a loud laugh. “You don’t pull any punches, do you, Cas? I like that.”

Castiel is too busy being startled that Winchester knows his name at all to object to the nickname. Before he can respond, Winchester hauls himself into a sitting position with an overdramatic abundance of grunting and groaning. Still grinning, he runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more on end, and declares, “Coffee me.”

Cas busies himself with preparing coffee, keeping his back to Winchester to hide the confusion he’s feeling. When he hands the man a cup, black but secretly full of sugar, the way he likes it, Winchester gulps it down with a satisfied noise, and holds it out for a refill.

“You’re a lifesaver, Cas,” he says, wrapping his hands around the second cupful. This one he savours. There’s something boyish in his face when he smiles. “Sorry I’m such a disaster today, but well, you heard Crowley last night: ‘You’re just here for your looks, Dean. You haven’t got the brains for anything else.’” His face falls into a scowl.

“I understand,” Castiel commiserates and finds he means it. “Crowley drives a lot of people to drink, I imagine.”

Dean chuckles at that. “But not you, Cas?”

Castiel raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t say that. I just have an extremely high tolerance.”

Dean’s grin widens. “Well, this I am going to have to see.”

“Another time,” Castiel tells him drily. “When you don’t have to be on stage. Now get in the shower. They can smell you in the casino.”

“Sir, yes sir,” Dean says, but he’s smiling as he does. He pulls himself off the couch and saunters off into the attached bathroom, passing the empty coffee cup to Castiel as he does.

“You’re alright, Cas,” he tells him, already pulling his shirt over his head as he closes the door behind him.

*****

 

_ INT. BATHROOM - DAY _

_ Dean’s private dressing room bathroom. Spacious and luxurious. Everything is gold or marble. Every surface gleams. DEAN emerges from an oversized, glass-fronted shower in a burst of steam, grabbing a large, fluffy towel from a rack within arm’s reach. He wraps a second towel around his head, turban-style. _

It’s a much cheerier Dean Winchester who steps out of the shower and into the steamy room. He hums to himself as he towels himself off, dancing a little around the room. Who knew Cas was such a funny guy?

Dean doesn’t usually pay his assistants much mind. Since he’s been a big enough name to need one, it’s been one long line of toadying assholes, handpicked by Crowley. Despite their obsequiousness, Dean’s always gotten the sense that they’re as much there to keep tabs on him and report back to the boss as they are for Dean’s convenience. Mostly they get shuffled off into another role after a few months, and Dean gets another, equally forgettable replacement.

Castiel Novak, on the other hand, has been different from the start. There’s the thing about his last name, for instance, that has Dean’s eyebrows raising. Novak is not exactly an unknown name in the City. But more, it’s the way he has never seemed interested in kissing up to Dean or Crowley. The thing is that up until now, Dean had assumed the difference was that Cas hated him. He wonders if all this time, he has simply failed to notice Cas’s dry sense of humour. Well, no more. Frankly, Cas is a breath of fresh air in this place, and Dean is going to befriend him.

With only a towel slung low around his hips, he exits the bathroom, letting a burst of heat and steam out into the main dressing room. Cas turns from where he is straightening Dean’s costume for later, and Dean notes the almost imperceptible widening of his eyes, the split second sweep over Dean’s chest and hipbones. Dean smirks to himself. Maybe there’s something else to work with here, something that can make both their lives much more interesting if he plays his cards right.

He’ll need to tread carefully, of course. Even in the permissive City, liking men is something that he keeps hush hush. The consequences for making a move on the wrong man could spell disaster, but there’s no harm in testing the waters. Turning up the charm, he asks, “What do you think? Do I pass muster?”

His grin is positively wolfish, and Cas may or may not colour faintly, but he meets him, challenging stare for challenging stare. He only breaks eye contact at last to drag his eyes coolly over Dean from head to toe.

“You’ll do,” he says at last. Dean laughs, delighted.  
  


*****

 

_ EXT. BARNYARD—DAY _

_ A barnyard between a gently shabby yellow farmhouse and a barn with peeling, once-red paint—the same as the opening scene, but everything is more tired and worn-looking. It’s drizzling. A wooden fence surrounds the barnyard, and outside in the laneway sits an expensive-looking car, clearly out of place in this setting. In the car sits GEORGE. He wears his hair slicked back and an expensive suit. In the barnyard are JACK, BOBBY and CHARLIE, all dressed for farmwork. Bobby wears a battered hat, while Jack wears a Davy Crockett-style coonskin hat. _

It’s raining again, and there’s a man in a slick car and a fancy suit watching the farm.

“Who’s that?” Jack asks Bobby and Charlie. Dad’s still inside squinting over the books yet again, but Jack had finished his homework and slipped outside to help the farmhands in the muddy yard.

Bobby squints out from under his beat-up, old hat. His eyes narrow further as he takes in the car and it’s occupant. “Trouble,” is all his says.

Charlie joins them, peering from under the dripping eaves. “Oh, that is not good,” she says under her breath. When Jack asks, neither elaborate.

*****

 

EXT. THE INFERNO. REAR ENTRANCE—DAY

_ A backdoor to the nightclub portion of THE INFERNO. This area is private and fenced off from patrons and the public. Security guards frame the otherwise nondescript door. DEAN emerges from the backseat of a Bentley driven by one of Crowley’s henchmen. Simultaneously, CROWLEY emerges from the rear entrance of the club, with papers in hand—a new song for Dean to learn. _

Dean’s barely emerged from the backseat of the shiny car that ferries him from the swanky uptown penthouse Crowley set him up in and the rear entrance of the Inferno—it’s no secret that he’d rather drive himself, but Crowley likes to protect his investments—when the oily sonuvabitch himself appears and shoves a stack of paper into his hands. Dean glances at the driver for a little sympathy, but it’s just one of Crowley’s goons today rather than Cas, and he’s met with nothing but a blank stare.

“Your new song,” Crowley says, by way of explanation, already striding on ahead of Dean, through the door and into the maze of corridors that make up the parts of the casino that are closed to the public. Dean rolls his eyes. “You’ve got an hour to learn it, then you’re practicing with the band. I want it ready to go by tonight. Castiel is fetching your new costume.”

Dean groans. A tight turnaround time  _ and  _ a new costume, probably of Crowley’s devising? “You’ve got to be kidding me.” But there’s no time to lodge his complaint. Crowley is already holding open Dean’s dressing room door and ushering him in.  

“See you soon, squirrel.” The door snicks shut between them.

*****

 

_ INT. DEAN’S DRESSING ROOM—DAY _

_ The room is neater than usual. DEAN is sprawled on the sofa with several pages of paper in his hand. _

Castiel finds Dean there ten minutes later, sprawled on the couch as always, though as he notices Cas, he straightens up and swings his legs out of the way to make room for him to sit.

He rattles the pages in his hand at Cas. “Do you know, this song isn’t half bad. Hell, if I didn’t know it was written by Marv, I’d almost call it genius.”

“Oh?” Castiel asks, plucking the first page from Dean’s hand. Involuntarily, a smile tugs at his lips as he skims down the page, over the musical notations and the lyrics. “Marv didn’t write this.”

Dean lets out a low whistle. “No shit? Is Crowley finally putting him out to pasture? He is gonna be pissed.” He winks conspiratorially, before he takes in the ever-so-well hidden smugness in Cas’s expression. Guessing correctly, he asks in tones of dawning wonder, “Wait, wait. Cas, did  _ you _ write this?”

Embarrassed, Castiel shrugs minutely. “Crowley owed me a favour. Songwriting has always been my ambition.” His eyes skip around the room, not meeting Dean’s.

“Well,” Dean says, with a hearty clap on the shoulder. “Let me be the first to tell you, man, you’ve got talent.”

Castiel glances at him, blinks and looks away again. “You haven’t even heard it yet.”

“Believe me, man.” Dean gives his shoulder a little squeeze that makes something flutter in Castiel’s chest against his will. “I can already tell.”

***** 

 

_ INT. CROWLEY’S OFFICE—NIGHT _

_ CROWLEY sits at his desk behind a pile of money. CASTIEL stands to attention just inside the door. _

Castiel’s song is a hit, if the screaming crowds are any indication.

Crowley is true to his word—shady as his dealings are, one thing he prides himself on is honouring his deals—and calls Cas into his office.

“Look at tonight’s take,” he gloats, indicating the piles of money heaped on his desk, coins and stacks of bills sliding every which way. It’s an unconventional way of handling finances, but Crowley is clearly reveling in it, so who is Castiel to say anything? “I made the right choice, letting you write that song. And now you’re going to write more. You’re going to write all of them.”

“Marv won’t be too happy about that,” Castiel feels the need to point out.

Crowley makes a little moue of disgruntlement at the reminder, but he’s clearly more interested in his new golden goose in the form of Castiel than he is in the trouble his crooked accountant could cause. “You let me worry about Marv. I’ll tell him I’ll publish his great American novel or something. But I want you to take those fingers to that golden typewriter, and tap-tap-tap away, and write me more hits.”

Castiel raises an eyebrow at that. “Am I still Dean’s assistant, as well?”

Crowley waves a hand. “Of course you are. No one else has kept him as bloody happy as you have in a long while. He’s practically docile now. Just the way I like him.”

With that, he dismisses Castiel, who makes his way back to find Dean, something settling uneasily in his stomach. It’s guilt, he realizes. Over the past weeks, he’s noticed that his feelings towards Dean have started changing, and he’s suddenly uncomfortably aware that he is betraying Dean’s trust.

*****

 

_ INT. CASTIEL’S APARTMENT—NIGHT _

_ A small, shabby apartment, just one room, in a bad part of town. It’s several stories up, and there is both a rickety fire escape outside and bars on the windows. The walls are dark and dated, almost dingy. There is a small kitchenette, equipped with a battered metal kettle and not much else. A tiny table, with a phone book under one leg, sports a much-loved typewriter, in front of which stands one lone chair. In the far corner is a narrow bed covered in thin sheets with a faded blue stripe. Two (thin) pillows stand against the wall, transforming it into a makeshift couch. A worn acoustic guitar is propped on the floor against the end of the bed. _

The thing is, Castiel  _ has _ noticed that Dean has started making an effort with him. He notices the  _ pleases _ and  _ thank yous _ , notices how much less surly Dean is with him, notices the good-natured teasing. He’s flattered by Dean’s seemingly genuine appreciation of his songs.

He definitely notices when Dean starts inviting him to join him in his dressing room for a post-show drink, keeping up an open and easy conversation that even Cas can navigate his way through. He’s not quite sure what prompted this change, but it makes his own charge of befriending the man easier, so who is he to question it? He’s been studiously ignoring the guilt he feels when he remembers Crowley’s words. Can making someone happy really be a bad thing?

To his own chagrin, he finds himself genuinely liking Dean. Sure, he’s brash and hotheaded and cocky, but underneath that, he’s kind and surprisingly gentle, and Castiel suspects, deeply lonely. He can’t help but find himself wanting to change that. Dean deserves the connections with people that he so clearly craves.

He notices the flirting, too. At least, he thinks it’s flirting—the light touches, the charm being turned in his direction, the innuendo. All buried under a layer of plausible deniability, of course. 

He can’t say he’s not intrigued—Dean is a beautiful man, and the more Castiel gets to know him, the more he can imagine what becoming lovers would be like. But Castiel knows the risks if he’s read the situation wrong. If Dean doesn’t share his inclinations, he could make all kinds of trouble for Castiel. Best for now to keep quiet and pay attention, and save all other urges for his own private apartment.

It’s always late at night when he returns there—long after Dean’s show has ended and he has wound down from the high of performing. Once one of Crowley’s drivers has shown up to drive Dean back to his penthouse, Castiel will make his own way home through increasingly narrow and rundown streets to the shabby building where he lives.

He keeps a gun tucked into his waistband for protection. It’s a dangerous area, and more dangerous still for Castiel, should his brother Raphael ever catch wind of where he is living.

Still, he had turned down the offer of safety and comfort as a permanent resident in Crowley’s hotel. He is already far more beholden to the man than he is comfortable with. He would not give him the satisfaction of having one more favour to hold over Castiel’s head.

Inside the small space, he makes a pitstop in the tiny kitchenette to fetch a glass of water in a chipped mug. A tiny wooden table, one leg propped up on a phone book, holds the typewriter that is his prize and joy. There is a single, rickety chair. He bypasses both for the bed that also serves as his sofa, placing the mug on the bedside table.

Stripping down to an undershirt and his soft cotton boxers, he settles himself under the sheets. It’s late, even the eternal noises of the City settled to a low distant shush. He lets his thoughts drift, as he strokes a hand over his own chest.

Idly, he pictures the curl and bright flash of Dean’s smile, feeling a spark of arousal. He lets his mind wander over the breadth of his hands, the glimpses of freckled skin he’s seen when Dean changes in front of him. His own hands trace increasingly restless circles on his hips.

What would Dean look like, bared to Castiel's gaze? What would he sound like, breathing his name? Would his skin be salty on Cas’s tongue?

Cas lets out a shuddering breath, his fingers flexing. The outline of his erection is obvious beneath the thin cotton of his shorts, a growing damp patch turning the fabric nearly translucent at the tip. He gives up any pretence that he will resist acting on this, delving beneath his waistband to take himself in hand.

_ Oh.  _ His breath rattles out of him at the sheer relief of touch. Pushing his shorts down further, he thumbs over the slick head with a whimper. Would Dean touch him like this? Would he duck his head to watch his hand stroking over Casti’s flesh? Would he catch his bottom lip between his teeth, the way Castiel longs to do?

_ Oh. Oh!  _ Castiel’s back arches as he strokes himself, his breath coming in pants. His restless legs have pushed the thin sheet down around his ankles. His toes curl in the threadbare fabric. With his spare hand, he pets over his side.

Would Dean throw his head back? Would he let Castiel touch him like this? Cas imagines the shape and heft of him. Would he—?  _ Would he—? _

What would he look like in the throes of orgasm? Castiel groans at the image that presents, the imagined strong line of Dean’s body, the ecstasy on his face, and then he is gone, lost, mind going gloriously blank as he spills over his own hand, whimpering as each stroke draws another pulse from his wrung out body.

At long last, he collapses back into his sheets, sticky and sweaty and exhausted. He has at least the presence of mind to pull some tissues from his drawer to clean himself up. He lies there, just breathing, as he comes back to himself. Finally, he drags himself to a sitting position so he can sip his water. His eyes droop as he drinks.

Tomorrow, he will return to the Inferno and face Dean, and tomorrow, he will remember every breathless second of tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

_ INT. CAR—DAY _

_ Wearing a chauffeur’s cap, CASTIEL steps out of the driver’s seat of a car, and waits to pick DEAN up outside the ornate gates of the building that houses his penthouse. The car is a Bentley, shiny and black. The interior is all buttery leather. There is a partition that can be raised between the well-equipped backseat—including a small bar—and the front, currently open. When Dean emerges, rather than sit in the backseat, he opts for the front passenger seat beside Castiel. _

Some days, Castiel is Dean’s driver. There’s no rhyme or reason to when he shows up, instead of one of Crowley’s usual hard-nosed thugs—it all seems to depend on the boss’s whim—but Dean finds himself looking forward more and more to the days when he finds that tousled dark head and serious face behind the wheel of the impeccably turned out Bentley.

“Nice hat.” He flicks the brim of the chauffeur’s cap Crowley insists his drivers wear, as he settles in beside Cas. Cas merely rolls his eyes. One of the perks of having Cas as his driver is that he lets Dean sit up front. When he has the other drivers, they insist—Crowley’s orders—that he sit in the back like the VIP he supposedly is. They don’t talk to him either, and he usually ends up putting up the privacy partition, in order to cut through the oppressive silence.

True, Cas can hardly be called a chatterbox, either, but Dean has been slowly but steadily drawing him out of himself, and he likes what he’s found. Beneath the taciturn exterior, Castiel is drily funny, deeply intelligent, and far more compassionate than one might expect for someone mixed up in the world of Crowley’s shady dealings. 

Even when they don’t have anything to say, the quality of their silence is different, comfortable. Dean doesn’t feel the need to perform with Cas. It doesn’t hurt that Cas is easy on the eyes, either. Truth be told, Dean’s pretty sure he could spend the whole trip from his penthouse to the Inferno letting his eyes trace the line of Cas’s jaw, his straight nose, the curve of his ear. If he could do so without being caught, he could linger over-long on the softness of Cas’s lips, the unfathomable blueness of his eyes. 

Sometimes he thinks he catches Cas’s eyes slipping over him in much the same manner, as they wait for traffic to pass. He imagines being able to ask, to find out if his developing feelings have a twin home in Cas’s chest. Still, he doesn’t dare. In this day and age, discretion remains the name of the game. 

*****

 

_ INT. CAR—NIGHT _

_CASTIEL drives and DEAN rides in the passenger seat once again. Outside the windows, the sky is dark, but the City is still brightly lit. The occasional car goes past._  

Less often, Crowley tasks Castiel with being the one to drive Dean home. On those evenings, Dean refrains from inviting him for a drink in his dressing room, though he has tried more than once to invite Cas up for a nightcap once they reach his penthouse. 

Cas always declines with a slight, soft downturn of his lips. He needs to return the car to the Inferno’s lot, he explains, before he makes his own way home at last. Dean doesn’t know exactly where Castiel lives, but he suspects it’s not nearly as nice as his own digs. 

On this night, however, Dean knows Cas is due to pick him up the next morning as well—early, because Crowley’s requested a morning meeting. He’d already run the idea by Crowley of putting Cas up in his guest room, and the car in his private lot. With the blessing of their boss, there’s no reason for Castiel to beg off, and he tells him so. 

Castiel’s eyes glitter in the bright lights of the night-time City. With the faintest quirk of his lips, Castiel pulls the car into a gliding stop beneath a streetlight. He shuts off the car, and Dean makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat. Cas turns to face him fully, something almost mischievous in his expression, that Dean likes far too well. 

“Do you want to drive?” 

The low rumble of Cas’s voice is so pleasant that Dean takes a moment to register his words. When he does, he perks up in his seat, the lingering fatigue of a long night of performing sloughing off him. 

“Do I?” He laughs. “Hell yes I do! Budge over, Cas.” 

It is the work of a moment to trade seats, and when the passenger door slams shut behind Castiel, they turn to each other with matching conspiratorial grins. 

Dean hums, caressing the steering wheel. “God, I’ve missed this feeling. How’d you know, Cas?” 

Cas’s answer is an enigmatic smile. Letting it go, Dean turns the key, and the car rolls smoothly back into gear. Dean’s grin widens. “Listen to that baby purr!” Feeling more relaxed than he has since he first came to the City, he pulls back out into the late night traffic. 

They spend the rest of the drive in comfortable silence, listening to the soft sounds of the City at night. All too soon, they are pulling through the gates of Dean’s building. He pulls into a parking spot, and sighs as he kills the ignition. He makes no move to exit the vehicle, taking another long moment to appreciate the feeling of being behind the wheel. 

When Cas shifts as if preparing to open his door, Dean stays him with a hand on his forearm. “Thank you, Cas, really.” 

Cas’s answer is a soft, “Of course,” though there’s no of course about it at all—that’s what makes it so meaningful. 

At long last, Dean feels ready to move. As they amble in to the building, side-by-side, he remembers to ask, “Hey, do you know what Crowley wants to meet with me about tomorrow?” The night watchman tips his hat. Their footsteps echo on the polished marble of the lobby. The concierge gives them a polite nod. 

Before answering, Castiel glances around. Satisfied that neither the concierge or the night watchman is listening in, he lowers his voice. “No one is supposed to know this yet, but I spotted a screenplay on Crowley’s desk. I think he wants you to make a movie.” 

Dean stops in his path and gapes at Cas. Him, in a movie. The idea is ludicrous. 

Castiel pats his arm. “Don’t worry. I think you’ll do very well.” 

*****

 

_ INT. DEAN’S BEDROOM—NIGHT _

_Dean’s bedroom in his penthouse. It is too dark to make out most of the details of the large room. The lights are off, though a faint glow from the city lights still filters in through the window, and DEAN lies alone on one side of the large bed. Expensive looking white linens are heaped at the foot of the bed, but Dean is covered in only one sheet, and his head rests on just one pillow. An unoccupied pillow lies on the other side of the bed._  

Dean rolls to his back, then over to his other side. His leg twitches. He shakes it, trying to untwist his sheet, with limited success. His mind won’t settle. 

With a huff of breath, he turns back onto his back for the umpteenth time. He stares up at the ceiling and tries to think soothing thoughts, but he is too distracted to sleep. 

He knows why, knows the cause is just across the way, asleep in his guest bedroom. Or hopefully asleep. When he had invited Cas to spend the night in his penthouse, he hadn’t taken into account what it would do to him to know that the other man was right there, probably soft and sleepy in his pyjamas, open and vulnerable like he never lets himself be in the daytime. 

Dean imagines the way Cas would look at him, sweet and welcoming, if Dean were to tiptoe across the way and push open his door. He lets out a low, involuntary sound, and feels parts of his body start to take interest. 

Cursing his unruly dick, he flops over onto his other side, and punches the pillow once or twice for good measure. Against his will, he remembers how Cas had looked in his living room. Remembers him comfortable and casual on Dean’s sofa, slightly flushed from the drinks Dean had poured him. He remembers the reverential way he had trailed his fingers over each of the guitars mounted on Dean’s wall, sparing as much love for the battered old acoustic as for the most expensive Les Paul. He remembers the gravelly—but fond; he thinks fond—tone of Cas’s voice as he had bid Dean goodnight. 

His dick twitches again, and Dean gives in. He rolls back onto his back, kicking his sheet away, and easing his pyjama bottoms down around his thighs. He has to bite his lip as he finally wraps a hand around himself, but even so, the quietest sound escapes. He glances at his door—still locked. He gives himself a squeeze, and his eyes roll back at the sensation. 

His breath hisses between his teeth as he sets a steady rhythm on himself, smearing a drop of precome to ease the way. He can’t believe he’s doing this with Cas just in the other room, but somehow, that knowledge only makes his blood run hotter. What if Cas could hear him? Would he touch himself, too, thinking of Dean? 

Despite that fantasy, Dean all but holds his breath to keep in the desperate sounds that want to escape. His hips twitch against the mattress as he presses up into his fist, again, again, _again_. 

He’d like to do this to Cas. Touch him. Feel him, all hard steel and velvety smooth. Watch him roll his bottom lip between his teeth, biting it pink. Wants to taste the salt of his skin, tangle his fingers in that impossible hair. Wants _him._ Wants _Cas._ Wants everything he can give. 

“Oh shit, oh shit,” he hisses, all but inaudible, as his head presses back into his pillow, and his come spills warm over his fingers, pooling on his stomach. 

“Oh shit,” he breathes, squeezing out the last few drops, teasing the tips of his fingers over his spent dick, until he shudders with the overstimulation. “Oh god. Holy shit.” _Cas._  

He wipes his hand on his belly, then reaches for the undershirt he’d discarded when he first started tossing and turning, to clean himself off. Tossing it aside, he tugs his clothing and sheet back into place, before allows himself to sag down into his pillow. His eyelids are already drooping. This time, sleep comes quickly.


	4. Chapter 4

_ INT. KITCHEN—DAY _

_ JACK crouches by the keyhole on the root cellar stairs. On the other side of the door, SAM and GEORGE discuss business. _

Jack never used to listen at keyholes—his dad had frequently praised him for what an honest kid he was—but there’s something going on, and he needs to know. The strain hasn’t gone out of Dad’s shoulders since Grandpa John’s funeral, and Jack’s spotted the shiny car and the man in the suit a few more times, always just watching the farm, until now.

Now, that man is in the kitchen. The usually sunny room is currently lit with a dull sort of grey light—it’s raining again. From where Jack is crouched on the rickety wooden root cellar stairs, peering through the lock, the man seems to further sully the neat white-washed walls with his oily presence. Jack tilts the lopsided Davy Crockett hat he wears back further on his head so he can see better through his tiny peephole.

“Mr. Roman’s offer is more than generous,” the man in the suit says. “Think of the things you’d be able to do for your boy with this money. Think of the future you could give him.”

“That’s all very well,” Dad says, an inch away from tearing on his long hair in frustration. “But Jack loves this farm. And my father loved this farm, and my brother loved this farm.”

“Ah, but you don’t love this farm?” The stranger idly picks up the lid of the rustic cookie jar that sits on the counter and peers inside. Finding nothing, he replaces the lid and turns back to Sam.

“Look,” Sam says. “It’s a big decision. I just need some more time.”

“Of course.” The man smiles an ingratiating smile. From Jack’s vantage point, he looks like he has far too many teeth. “Mr. Roman understands this isn’t easy for you, but he trusts you’ll make the right decision. I’ll come back in a week or so, and we can chat some more.”

“I’m not making any promises,” Sam warns, even as he shakes the man’s hand.

“Of course not.” The man tips his hat as he lets himself out the door. “And do give our best to that son of yours. The boy looks smart as a whip.” Unseen by Sam, he winks in the direction of Jack’s keyhole. Jack freezes, holding his breath, but the man simply continues on his way, letting the door clatter shut behind him.

Sam sinks down into a wooden chair, his head slumping forward. Out in the driveway, a car starts, as the man takes his leave. Sam raises a hand to massage the strain from his forehead. Jack stays where he is, hardly daring to breathe for several long minutes. When it becomes clear that nothing else is going to happen, he emerges, arms full of potatoes.

“I got the potatoes you asked for, Dad.”

Sam’s head raises. “What? Oh. Were you down there the whole time?”

Jack considers lying, but knows it wouldn’t be very believable. “Don’t you love the farm?” he asks instead.

Sam doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks away and says, “I’m not much of a farmer, Jack.”

Jack shakes his head, dislodging his hat. “But that’s why we have Bobby and Charlie, right? Dad, please don’t sell the farm.” He doesn’t want to leave it.

Dad ruffles his hair, like he used to when Jack was small. “I promise I don’t want to.” But that’s not much of a promise at all.

*****

 

_ INT. DICK ROMAN’S OFFICE—DAY _

_ As luxurious as Crowley’s office, but much more sleek and modern. DICK ROMAN, a powerful crime lord, sits behind a giant mahogany desk, facing GEORGE, who stands in front of it. _

“Any progress with the Winchester farm?” Dick Roman asks, peering at his nephew over the top of his enormous, polished mahogany desk.

His nephew swallows, all his oily self-confidence absent. “Not yet, Uncle Dicky. I mean Uncle Dick. I mean, Mr. Roman. But I think I can wear him down. Sam Winchester never wanted to be a farmer.”

“Good.” Dick Roman steeples his hands in a way calculated to intimidate underlings and rivals alike. “So, you don’t foresee any setbacks this time.”

“Well, ah—” his nephew falters.

“Go on.”

“The boy. The boy could be a problem.”

“How old is he, nine? Ten?”

“Thirteen, I think.”

A smile like a shark’s spreads across Dick Roman’s face. “Trust me. A thirteen-year-old boy is no problem.”

“Yes, uncle Dicky. Uncle Dick. Mr. Roman. Sir.”

*****

 

_ INT. BACKSTAGE—NIGHT _

_ CASTIEL avidly watches DEAN perform from the wings. _

Onstage, Dean is electric. That he’s performing Castiel’s songs, well, it’s a heady feeling. In his place behind the wings, Cas can’t help but lean forward, as if drawn by a magnet. From his position, he can see the glisten of sweat on the nape of Dean’s neck, illuminated by the neon stage lights. He wonders what it would be like to bite that spot.

Dean turns to strut back upstage. As he does, his eyes find Cas’s hidden in the wings, and they are heavy with something that makes Cas breathless. Ever since the night Castiel spent in Dean’s guest room, he’s felt his eyes on him, more and more, always heavy with meaning Castiel hopes desperately he is interpreting correctly.

Dean sends him a wink. The backing musicians bring the song to a crescendo, and then Dean is whirling to face the audience once more, belting out Cas’s words with a passion that crackles in Cas's chest.

He’s so close. If only he could be sure.

*****

 

_ INT. DEAN’S DRESSING ROOM —NIGHT _

_ DEAN and CASTIEL both sit on the sofa, Dean leaning against one of the arms, his legs in Cas’s space. _

“So, how’d you end up working for Crowley, anyway?” Dean asks, lounging back on the sofa in his dressing room. He pours a generous two fingers into each of their glasses and clinks them together.

“Do I not seem like the type?” Cas asks in that serious way of his, and Dean chuckles deep in his throat. He eyes Cas in a considering way, before answering.

“Nah, man. You don’t. But I meant, you’re one of the Novaks, ain’t ya? So how’d you end up working for Crowley?”

Beside him, Cas has gone unnaturally still, his fingers clenched tight on his glass.

“I didn’t realize you knew that.”

Dean shrugs. “Not that hard to figure out. It is your last name.”

“I—” Cas starts then stops.  _ I didn’t realize you knew my last name,  _ Dean fills in with a pinch of guilt.

Cas deflates, slumping into the cushions. “It’s a long story. Suffice to say, I made a play for the family business, against my brother Raphael, and lost. I’d got it into my head that we could ‘go straight.’” His mouth gives a bitter little twist. “I got in over my head, and Crowley offered me a helping hand.”

“And Crowley’s helping hands always come with claws.” Dean gives a low whistle. Brother or not, for Cas to go head to head with the notorious Raphael Novak, he was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid. And to try to reform the entire Novak crime empire, well that was an ambition and a half. He snorts into his drink. “Well, hell, the only thing I ever tried to take over was the damn family farm.”

Cas sits forward, immediately intrigued. “You really were a farmer? I figured Crowley was just having a go at you. How on earth did you end up here?” The tilt of his head somehow encompasses the both the ridiculous luxury of the dressing room, and the glamour of Dean’s entire stage career.

Dean grimaces and downs his glass, pouring himself another before he begins.

“Well, the farm’s long gone for one thing. Spent my whole life there, worked that ground since I was a boy, same as my old man, and now it’s some luxury resort and golf club.”

Cas makes a sympathetic noise, and Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye. Cas is sitting upright, his head tipped at that attentive angle Dean is coming to recognize. Dean takes a deep breath and moves on.

“My old man, he liked things a particular way, you know? But I knew what I was doing, and I thought he knew that.

“So he goes out of town and leaves me in charge. Trusted me to run things the way he would have done. Even after Sammy came home with his kid, the farm was still mine, really.” John had gone ‘out of town’ a lot, come to think of it. Dean has a niggling suspicion that he had another family somewhere, but there's no point voicing that to Cas now. 

“Anyway, there was this rich dick sniffing around the farm—Dick, heh. That was his name, Dick. Wanted to buy the land and build it up into a resort. So I did what Dad would have done, and told him to get lost—or what I  _ thought  _ Dad would have done. Turns out I was wrong. When I told him what happened, he was livid. I half expected him to take his belt out and have a go at me like I was still a kid.”

Instead John had raged at him about knowing his place, that the farm was  _ his,  _ not Dean’s, and he could do what he pleased with it.

“He told me to get off his farm,” Dean says with a nonchalant shrug he doesn’t feel. “So I came to the City and sang for my supper until Crowley found me and made me the rockstar you see today.” He spreads his hands expansively to encompass the plush space. “All the fame, money,  _ ladies  _ I could want—” He eyes Cas as he says the last bit, checking his reaction, seeing if he notices the missing word. If they’re both on the same page...

“Besides,” he adds, getting back to the point of the story, with a bitter twist to his mouth, “I figure the old man sold the farm the day after I left. So it’s gone. Nothing to go back to.”

Cas’s hand makes an abortive gesture towards his own, the sign Dean’s been waiting for. It’s barely a twitch really, but Dean sees it and catches the tips of his fingers in his own, holds Cas’s gaze with his without moving closer. “This what I think it is, Cas?” he asks seriously. “Because if it is, I ain’t saying no, but this could land us both in hot water, so until I know, I ain’t saying yes either.”

In response, Cas twines their fingers together more firmly and stares almost defiantly into Dean’s eyes. When he answers, his voice is low like water over river stones. “It’s what you think it is.”

Dean’s lips barely have time to twist into a tiny smirk. “Good,” he says, and pulls Cas in by their joined hands, fitting their mouths together in a hot, demanding kiss. Cas responds in kind, a fist clenching in the back of Dean’s shirt, as hungry for Dean as Dean is for him. When they pull apart for air, Dean asks, “That what you wanted?”

“Yes,” Cas all but growls, kissing Dean again, all lips and teeth and tongue. It’s all-encompassing, enough to make Dean lose track of his dark thoughts. As they kiss, he gradually shifts them until Cas is flat on his back on the sofa, Dean hovering over him and running his tongue up the sharp line of Cas’s jaw.

“What do you say?” He pulls back far enough to look into Cas’s eyes. “Want to chase away some demons with me?”

***** 

 

Cas’s mouth is just the thing to drive demons away, his hands strong and steady as they explore Dean, discovering all the things that make him moan and gasp. Dean returns the favour, learning the planes and angles of Cas’s body, the solid heat of him as well as the way he melts into Dean’s touch, an entirely different creature to his usual uptight facade.

Of course, Dean has already somewhat seen through that facade, thanks to his efforts to get Cas to lighten up, but this—this is something else entirely. He could make a home in Castiel’s touch and be happy there.

“Dean,” Castiel pants, breathless and beautiful, as Dean touches him through altogether too many layers of fabric. Dean nips at his neck, eliciting a deep groan. He needs to touch him properly, to know what he feels like in his hand. He fumbles with Cas’s fly as Cas attempts to remove Dean’s shirt, their hands tangling in the middle.

“Hold on, hold on.” Dean laughs breathlessly. “Let’s do this right.” He gathers enough self-control to lean back and remove his own shirt, and shuck his pants, leaving himself in only his underwear, while Cas does the same.

“God, look at you.” Unconsciously licking his lips, Dean lets his eyes rake over Cas’s body. He’s glorious, tanned and toned. One day, Dean is going to map out all that skin with hands and mouth, but right now, what he needs most is to get his hand on the bulge in Cas’s boxers.

Cas hisses as Dean runs a finger over his cotton-covered length, teasing him, but Dean doesn’t make him wait long. Reaching under the waistband, he frees Cas’s cock, giving it an experimental stroke. Cas moans and twitches in Dean’s hand. Gathering precome from the head, Dean starts up a steady rhythm that has Cas gripping his one shoulder so tightly, Dean expects to find a hand shaped bruise there tomorrow.

That’s fine with him, as Cas makes the most delicious noises, writhing practically in Dean’s lap. Dean is rock hard in his own underwear, and he shifts them so he can thrust up against Cas’s thigh as he works him over. Their mouths meet again, sweet and hot.

When they break the kiss at long last, it’s so that Cas can pant, “Dean, let me touch you. I need to feel you.”

Dean frees himself, and they shift position, so they are pressed together chest to thigh, their cocks riding together, and then Cas is batting Dean’s hand away and gathering them both up in one strong grip. He breathes, shuddery and wide-eyed, staring up at Dean as he strokes them both, and Dean adds his own hand back in, bringing them both off together.

Castiel comes first, mouth open on a silent gasp. The heat of him spilling over Dean’s hand and dick is enough to have him coming too, holding Cas’s gaze the entire time.

They come down again, curled against each other’s chests. Catching his breath, Dean chuckles helplessly into the side of Castiel’s neck. “Well, that sure was something.”

“It was.” Castiel sits back to look at him, and the sight of him, debauched and kiss-bitten and smiling is nearly enough to knock Dean into orbit. “And we should certainly do it again.”


	5. Chapter 5

INT. BEDROOM—DAY

_ Dean’s bedroom, in his penthouse. In the light of day, it is clear that Crowley has spared no expense, though the room doesn’t reflect either Crowley’s  _ or  _ Dean’s taste. Modern and airy. The focus of the room is the large bed, covered in crisp, white bedding. DEAN lies awake in bed, while CASTIEL dozes on his chest. A script sits on Dean’s bedside table. _

One night together turned into two, turned into two weeks, turned into more. Chasing away mutual demons turned into a convenient arrangement, turned into whatever this is. Dean runs one hand idly through Cas’s hair and picks up the script from his bedside table with the other. For his part, Cas snores open-mouthed against Dean’s chest.

He shifts himself into a sitting position, being careful not to wake Cas as he shifts his head from his chest to his thigh. Cas simply wraps a sleepy arm around Dean’s leg and goes back to sleep. Dean can’t help but smirk to himself at how well he’s worn Cas out. Trying to ignore the fondness welling in his chest, he turns to the script.

He’d been skeptical when Crowley had run the idea by him of making him a movie star—Dean’s a singer, not an actor—but then Crowley had let drop that Cas would be writing the songs, and like hell was Dean going to be the reason Cas missed an opportunity like that. So here he is, reading over the script again and hoping he has it memorized when they start filming tomorrow. He’s even met the director that Crowley wants to use. Dean’s not sure he likes him—he’s smarmy and British and wears shirts that should be considered obscene, but he seems as impressed with Cas’s music as Dean is, and that’s good enough for Dean, even if he wishes the other man wouldn’t refer to Cas as “darling” quite so often.

The best part of being a movie star is the motorcycle Dean gets to ride in the big chase scene. He’s already seen her, and she’s a thing of beauty, one he can’t wait to get between his thighs.

Kind of like Cas in that respect—Cas, who is currently blinking himself awake, his hot breath on Dean’s lap perking him up. Cas hums and fondles the sensitive skin of Dean’s inner thigh.

Dean sets the script aside. “Ready to go again, Tiger?”

*****

 

_ EXT. BARNYARD—DAY _

_ GEORGE’s car is parked outside the house. CHARLIE and JACK are feeding the animals. _

The man in the suit comes back several more times over the next few weeks, each time, pushing the mysterious Mr. Roman’s offer.

“Why does Mr. Roman want our farm anyway?” Jack asks Charlie as they feed the animals side-by-side one day. The man is back again, talking to Dad inside the house, as always. This time there’s an even slicker-looking man with him. Jack suspects this might be Mr. Roman himself, but he doesn’t know for sure—after the first time, Dad had taken to sending Jack off to do outside chores during the meetings.

Charlie pours her bucket of feed into a trough, while Jack refills a water bucket. “Well, I haven’t heard this time, but last time Roman tried to buy this place, he wanted to build a resort. Golf course, artificial lake, the whole nine.”

“Last time?” Jack echoes.

“Yeah. Your Uncle Dean sent him packing that time.” Her eyes widen as she realizes what she’s revealed. “Oh dammit, Charlie.”

Jack swallows. “Is that why Grandpa John sent him away?”

Charlie gulps. “I shouldn’t have told you that. Can we pretend I didn’t tell you that?”

“But Grandpa John didn’t sell him the farm either.”

Charlie moves on to the next food trough. “Your grandpa was… complicated.”

Jack sighs. “I miss Uncle Dean.”

“I know, kiddo. We all do.”

“Did you know him long? Before he left?”

“All my life. Why? Looking for tales of his misspent youth?” Charlie laughs.

Jack ducks his head. “I just want to know more about him. I don’t remember much from before he left. Just that he was nice to me.”

Charlie strokes Baby’s nose as she sticks her head over the stall. “Yeah, that’s Dean for you. I grew up the next farm over, but when my folks died, I couldn’t keep it, and I thought I’d have to move away. Dean was the one who convinced John to hire me on, even though I was a scrawny thing, barely out of school. And he made sure I was okay, sat with me when I needed to cry, made losing them that much easier.”

Jack nods solemnly. “He helped when I was missing my mom, too.”

Charlie hugs him with one arm. “Too bad he’s not here to comfort us when we’re missing him, huh?”

“It’s different though. He’s not dead, just missing.” He kicks a pebble and watches it roll down the aisle of the barn. “I wish I knew how to find him, but we don’t even know where he went.”

Charlie bites her lip. “I mean, if I had to guess, I’d say he went to the City.”

“Really?” Jack perks up. “Why?”

“Well, for one, it’s the exact opposite of here. After the fight with his dad, while he was packing, he told me he wanted to get as far from this life as he could. Plus it’s an easy place to disappear or to reinvent yourself. And if anyone could reinvent themselves with nothing but a suitcase and an old guitar, well, it’s Dean Winchester.”

“I remember that guitar!”

Jack’s eyes shine as he moves from the barn to the chicken coop to gather the day’s eggs. He has a lead. That’s the first step to saving the farm.

*****

 

_ EXT. BARNYARD—DAY _

_ A grey, drizzly rain. JACK leans on the wooden fence. GABRIEL emerges from the farmhouse and approaches him. _

By a few days later, Jack’s feeling less optimistic. What good does it do to know where Uncle Dean might be, if he has no way of getting there?

An opportunity comes in the form of Uncle Gabe, who finds Jack leaning on the soggy wood of the barnyard fence, watching the goats huddle under the tin lean-to, out of the persistent drizzle.

“Heya, kiddo,” he greets, tilting the brim of his hat against the rain. “Why the long face?”

Uncle Gabe isn’t actually his uncle. Mostly, Jack thinks he’s Dad’s friend, if by friend he means someone Dad is usually exasperated with, but who keeps coming around, poking and prodding at Sam when his moods are bleak, and occasionally startling a laugh out of him. Jack’s not entirely sure when he moved to town, but he thinks it was sometime after Uncle Dean left.

At thirteen, Jack’s a little old now for the magic tricks Gabriel entertained him with when he was younger, but he’s still fond of the man. Gabriel, too, occasionally lets Jack get a glimpse behind the sarcastic, urbane veneer that he shows most of the world. It’s because of that that Jack trusts him enough to answer honestly.

“Dad’s talking about selling the farm.”

Uncle Gabe hums thoughtfully. “And you don't want to move away, huh? He say why he wants to sell?”

Jack shrugs morosely. “I think we’re losing money. He won’t say, really. And Mr. Roman really wants the place.”

Uncle Gabe’s glance sharpens at that. “Roman, huh?”

Jack nods. “Dad doesn’t want him to build a resort here, but if Mr. Roman keeps pushing, or if he offers enough money…” He trails off and bites his lip. “Dad said if Uncle Dean were here, he’d turn things around.”

“That so?” Gabe asks mildly.

“Yeah. Dad doesn’t know where to find him, though. But,” Jack lowers his voice conspiratorially, “I think Dad’s just scared to look for him, in case he won’t come back.”

Uncle Gabe raises an eyebrow. “And you think you know where he is?”

Jack glances around to make sure his father’s not within earshot. “I think he’s in the City,” he blurts out. “Will you take me to find him?”


	6. Chapter 6

_ EXT. BARNYARD—DAY _

_ On the far side of the fence, JACK and GABRIEL prepare to get into Gabriel’s car, an obnoxiously pink Cadillac with enormous fins that is entirely out of place in the countryside. The car is parked beside a battered, blue pickup truck, clearly used for farmwork. _

“I can’t believe you talked me into this,” Uncle Gabe mutters as he opens the door of his car to let Jack toss his duffle bag in the backseat.

“Please, Uncle Gabe?” Jack widens his eyes as big as they go. “It’s to save the farm.”

“Geeze, kid.” Gabe shakes his head. “Your dad is gonna have my head, and have you seen him? I can’t take him in a fight.”

“It’ll be fine,” Jack protests. “Besides, I left a note so he won’t worry.”

“You left a note,” Gabriel repeats. “Christ, kiddo. You’re something else. Just get in the car. The sooner we find your uncle, the sooner I can get you home.”

Jack has his hand on the door handle, when a cough behind him makes both him and Gabriel jump. Jack whirls around to face Bobby. A scowl is painted over Bobby’s face, and his arms are crossed over his chest. Charlie is hovering behind his elbow, looking the sternest Jack has ever seen her.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Bobby growls, and Gabriel makes a strange squeaking noise. Both Bobby and Charlie deepen their glares in his direction.

Jack decides that he’d better jump in and rescue him. “Don’t be mad at Uncle Gabe,” he insists with his brightest grin. “I asked him to take me to the City to find Uncle Dean.”

“That so?” Bobby grumps, squinting in Gabriel’s direction. Gabe shrugs eloquently. “Hmph.” 

“We need Uncle Dean to save the farm,” Jack rushes to explain, before Bobby or Charlie can ask. “I don't want Dad to sell it to Mr. Roman.”

Charlie shudders. “God, no. Roman is a creep.”

Bobby appears to be mulling something over behind his beard. Finally, he says, “Tell you what. I was about to head into the City for some parts for the thresher. Taking Charlie with me, too. If you want to tag along, we can look for your uncle while we’re there.”

“Yes!” Jack cheers. Before anyone can object, he adds, “I want Uncle Gabe to come, too.”

“What?” Gabriel squawks. “Really? Still? But I’ll get claustrophobic with so many people in my car.” 

“Please?”

He wilts under the blaze of Jack’s enthusiasm. “Oh, alright.”

Bobby glowers in the direction of Gabriel’s blindingly pink Cadillac. “We’re taking my truck.”

*****

 

_ INT. PICKUP TRUCK—DAY _

_ BOBBY drives. GABRIEL, CHARLIE and JACK are crammed together in the cabin. The truck rattles along a country road. _

Jack sneaks upstairs to destroy his note, while Charlie heads into the kitchen to convince his father to let her and Bobby take him into the city as a special treat. She doesn’t mention that Gabriel is coming, too, because that would only tip Dad off that something unusual is afoot. Dad must be feeling particularly guilty about letting Jack know his worries about the farm, because he acquiesces almost immediately.  

They all pile into Bobby’s beat up pickup truck. It’s a tight squeeze. They’re barely ten minutes into the drive when Gabriel opens a window, insisting he needs air. Unfortunately, the whole vehicle immediately floods with the pungent scent of manure-fertilized fields.

“Oh god,” Charlie croaks, waving a hand frantically under her nose, while trying to breathe shallowly through her mouth. “Close the window.”

“No!” Gabe snaps, pressing himself bodily against the side of the cabin, blocking the window. “I need air! We’re trapped like rats in here.”

“We all need air, you damn idjit,” Bobby grouses. “That’s not air. Close the window.”

“No.”

“Close it.”

“No.”

“Close it, or I dump you out here and you can walk back.”

“Fine,” Gabe huffs, flinging himself dramatically back against his seat with a roll of his eyes. “You can close it.”

“Thank you,” Charlie says primly, as she reaches across him to do it.

“Please,” Jack begs. “Can we not fight?”

Charlie ruffles his hair. “It’ll be okay. Once we find your uncle, I’m sure everyone will forget about squabbling. Won’t they?” she asks pointedly.

Gabriel pouts and crosses his arms, and Bobby grumbles under his breath, but they all subside into peace as the truck rattles along.

*****

 

_ INT. PICKUP TRUCK—EARLY EVENING _

_ The truck drives down a City boulevard. Though the sun hasn’t fully set yet, everything is lit in neon and bright, sometimes flashing, lights. Hotels, casinos and theatres line the block. Billboards abound. JACK plasters his face to the truck’s window in order to look around. One particularly large billboard features a neon outline of a man, and advertises “THE KING”. _

The old pickup truck rattles its way from farmland to tidy suburbs to City outskirts. The buildings around them begin rising higher and higher, the lights brighter and brighter. Jack gazes around with unabashed interest. Everything is flashier and fancier than he can ever remember seeing.

“Well, kiddo,” Gabriel asks as the idle at an intersection, waiting for the traffic to go by in the other direction. “We’re in the City. What’s the plan to find your wayward uncle.”

Bobby clears his throat. “Somehow, I don’t think we’re gonna have a problem with that.” He nods his head towards a giant billboard. There Dean is, in neon glory, ten feet tall from face to distinctive bowlegs.

“THE KING! Live at the Inferno,” the sign reads. “Nightly shows. Cover at the door. No minors.”

“We have to go,” Jack decides, before belatedly asking, “What’s the Inferno?”

Gabriel scowls darkly. “It’s a nightclub, and you can’t go. You’re thirteen.”

“But what about Uncle Dean?”

“We could disguise him,” Charlie suggests, “make him look older. We all want Dean back.” Jack nods enthusiastically, and Bobby simply harrumphs.

“Look,” Gabriel argues. “It’s not the sort of place you should go. Any of you.”

“It sounds like hundreds of people go there all the time,” Charlie counters, “and none of them have any trouble.”

“Fine.” Gabriel grits his teeth and admits, “It’s not a place where I can show my face, alright?”

Jack looks immediately cheered. “That’s okay. We can disguise you, too!” 

“This’ll end well for sure,” Gabriel mutters, even as he gives in.

*****

 

_ INT. DINER—EVENING _

_ A small, plain but tidy diner in a shabby part of town. JACK, CHARLIE, BOBBY and GABRIEL share a booth. Everyone has a plate before them, and Jack has two, as well as a strawberry milkshake. _

The hotel where they are staying is nowhere near the shining, glamourous strip that houses the Inferno. The whole neighbourhood possesses a general air of shabbiness, and the hotel is no exception. They stop in long enough to book adjoining rooms—one for Jack and Charlie, and one for Bobby and Gabriel, to both men’s chagrin—and to drop off their bags.

The next stop is a diner two doors down. It’s tiny, but clean, and the food is hearty and filling after a long day in the car. Jack practically inhales his first hamburger, and Bobby indulges him by ordering him a second.

“What?” he says gruffly, when Charlie looks like she’s going to melt at the gesture. “He’s a growing boy.”

“And we somehow have to make him look like a  _ grown  _ boy,” Gabriel points out. “How do you propose we do that?”

“Well, we start with a suit, obviously,” Charlie says, reasonably. “You did bring one, right, Jack?”

He nods, mouth full of burger.

“Then we spiff him up with some brylcreem. And then, what are the chances we can get a fake mustache at this time of night?”

“I’ve got one,” Gabriel says. He offers no further explanation of  _ why _ he would have such an item, but before Charlie can ask him to give it to Jack, he adds, “But I need it for me.”

*****

 

_ EXT. THE INFERNO—NIGHT _

_ Above a pair of ornate, gilded doors is a marquee advertising “The King.” Other, lesser acts are advertised below. There are posters on either side of the door, also advertising various performances, and a red velvet rope preventing anyone from entering without being cleared by THE BOUNCER. Crowds, dressed to the nines, are eager to get in, as are BOBBY, CHARLIE, JACK and GABRIEL. Bobby, Charlie and Jack are dressed their best, but don’t quite fit in with the elegant crowd. Their attempts to make Jack look older are only partially successful. Gabriel, on the other hand, could fit right in, if it weren’t for the comical fake mustache he wears. _

The bouncer on the door is a hulking, bored-looking figure, who takes one look at their group and says, “You can’t come in.”

“But I’m twenty… two. I’m twenty-two,” Jack protests. “I even have I.D.” He waves the license that Charlie had created for him that afternoon, a skill that had come as a surprise from the cheerful farmhand. Gabriel, at least, had been grudgingly impressed.

“Sure you do, kid,” the bouncer dismisses him, “but the boss don’t want no hayseeds in here, bringing the tone down. And he—” he fixes his gaze on Gabriel with the faintest sneer “—he’s a Novak.”

Gabriel swears and adjusts his fake mustache. “Alright, we tried. Time to go.”

“But—” Jack argues.

Gabriel clamps a hand down on his arm. “Time to go.” His tone brooks no argument.

*****

 

_ INT. HOTEL ROOM—NIGHT _

_ A hotel away from the main attractions of the City. Clearly trying for the glitz of its fancier counterparts, but unable to manage it. Everything has a slightly shabby air. The walls and windows have a yellowish cigarette tinge. A fire escape can be seen outside the window. Two double beds, orange counterpanes. Two armchairs, also orange, around a small, round table. BOBBY, CHARLIE, JACK and GABRIEL gather in this room. The front door of the room is closed, but an adjoining door is open to an identical room.  _

They regroup back at their hotel. It’s shabby and smells of cigarette smoke, a far cry from the luxury suites attached the the Inferno for high-rolling casino patrons and the wealthy socialites that pack the nightclub.

“So that was a bust.” Charlie slumps down into a chair in the room she’s sharing with Jack. Jack lies face-down on the scratchy bedspread, disappointment in the line of his shoulders.

“I told you it was a bad idea,” Gabriel snaps.

“You couldn’t have picked yourself a better disguise, idjit?” Bobby demands. “And what was that about being a Novak?”

“Nothing relevant.”

“I think it’s relevant if it puts Jack in danger,” Bobby growls.

“Well, what do we do now?” Charlie asks, diffusing the tension. 

That makes Jack perk up. He lifts his head from the musty pillow. “You mean we can try again?” 

Bobby snorts. “Should try talking to Dean one-on-one. Would’ve been no point in being in the audience anyway.”

“How do we get him one-on-one, though?” Charlie muses.

“Someone could sneak into his dressing room,” Gabriel suggests sarcastically.

“Yes!” Charlie agrees.

“That just might work,” Bobby says.

“I’ll do it!” Jack volunteers. 

Gabriel throws up his hands. “You’re talking about breaking into Fergus Crowley’s establishment. Do you even know what that means?”

“But it’s to save the farm!” Jack plays his trump card.


	7. Chapter 7

_ INT. DRESSING ROOM—NIGHT _

_ Dean’s dressing room. CASTIEL enters to find JACK sitting on the couch. _

Although he is not technically a bodyguard, Castiel has put himself between Dean and an over-enthusiastic fan on more than one occasion. Now that they’re lovers, he takes Dean’s privacy even more seriously. It’s for that reason that he’s utterly unimpressed when he opens Dean’s dressing room door to prepare it for Dean to retreat to after his show, only to find a young man sitting on Dean’s sofa.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snarls, before the figure turns his head and Castiel realizes he is much younger than he previously thought. He takes a breath to reiterate his question in a less threatening way, but before he can, the boy springs up, extending his hand as if to shake.

“Hello,” he greets with all the enthusiasm of an overgrown puppy. “I’m Jack. I'm here to speak to Dean. I mean,  _ the King. _ ”

Rattled, Castiel demands, “Did someone let you in here?”

“Nope.” Jack shuffles his feet sheepishly. His grin is irritatingly endearing. “I had to sneak in, because I’m a minor and they wouldn’t let me in the front door.”

Castiel resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose to stave off the developing headache. “Well, I’m sorry, but you can’t be here. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”

“But I need to speak to Dean. It’s very important.”

“Everyone wants to speak to Dean, but you aren’t allowed to be here. I’ll escort you out.”

“I didn’t say I just  _ want  _ to talk to him,” Jack insists. “I need to talk to him.”

“And I need you to leave. You can either follow me out, or I can call security, but I won’t be letting you bother Dean.”

He holds the door open pointedly, and the boy shuffles grudgingly after him. When he reaches the back exit and opens the door for him, Jack makes one last, odd plea. “Please, I need to ask him to save the farm.”

Castiel sighs. He needs to get back before Dean comes offstage. He doesn’t have time to listen to this boy’s sob story. “I’m sorry, but this is no place for you. Go home.”

“Fine.” Jack kicks a pebble and melts off into the darkness towards three figures who seem to be waiting for him. “I tried,” Castiel hears him say.

He returns to Dean’s dressing room, determined to put the odd encounter out of his mind, but it takes the kiss Dean lays on him once they’re sure they’re alone to really distract him.

*****

 

_ INT. HOTEL ROOM—NIGHT _

_ BOBBY, CHARLIE, JACK and GABRIEL are gathered in their room once more. _

Jack is once again face-down in the dubious hotel pillows. 

“I failed,” he says miserably, thin shoulders hunching. “I didn’t even get to talk to him. I failed, and now Dick Roman’s gonna buy the farm and we’ll all have to leave.”

“There, there,” Charlie pats his shoulder. “It’ll still be three more days before the thresher parts are ready. Maybe we’ll come up with something else.”

Gabriel is perched on the end of Charlie’s bed. “Chin up, Jacky-boy.”

“No sense giving up hope yet,” Bobby says, comforting in his own gruff way. “We’ll just keep thinking.”

*****

 

_ INT. CROWLEY’S TRAILER—DAY _

_ Somehow as overdone and expensive-looking as Crowley’s office, though much smaller. There is a wet bar, and a set of golf clubs stand off to one side. CROWLEY sits behind the desk, DICK ROMAN sits in front, both looking smug and at ease. DEAN enters through the front door. _

Dean’s always on edge when Crowley gets particularly jovial with him. So when Crowley calls him into the trailer that is serving as his office on set with a hearty “Dean, come join us, won’t you?” Dean feels all his muscles tense up.

His tension is justified when he sees the face of the man inside Crowley’s lushly appointed trailer. 

“Dean.” Crowley’s smile is all smarm. “I want you to meet Dick Roman. He’s backing our little movie.”

Roman smiles. There’s something sharklike about his smile. Dean gets the impression that he has too many teeth. He gets smoothly to his feet, his movements like an oil slick, and takes Dean’s hand to shake. Dean returns the gesture on autopilot. 

“Mr. Winchester,” Roman greets. “I haven’t seen you since you refused to sell me that quaint little farm. It seems you’ve moved up in the world.”

“That’s one way of looking at it,” Dean recovers enough to respond drily. He puts a little extra squeeze into his handshake, just enough to hurt.

“I am surprised, though,” Roman adds mildly. “You seemed so attached to that little patch of dirt. I wonder what happened to convince you to leave?” 

The conversation continues on, and Dean smiles and gestures and says the right things, doing his best not to react to what Roman had let slip: John had not sold Roman the farm after all.

*****

 

_ INT. DEAN’S TRAILER—DAY _

_ This trailer feels much more “Dean” than either his dressing room or penthouse. Among little homey touches, there is an electric guitar in one corner, a bottle of whiskey with two simple glasses, and a long, comfortable sofa bench. CASTIEL sits on this sofa, while DEAN lies on it, his head on Castiel's thigh. _

“That old bastard,” Dean rants, his head pillowed in Castiel’s lap, as Cas runs soothing fingers through his hair. “After all of that, after kicking me out of my own goddamn home, the home I cared about more than he ever did, he didn’t sell the place! He didn’t even want to sell the place! He just didn’t want me to make that choice. What kind of father—? And don’t get me started on Roman. That sleazebag, shaking my hand and calling it a patch of dirt!”

Cas makes soothing noises as Dean subsides. Dean closes his eyes, and Cas frowns to himself. Dick Roman is trouble. If Crowley and Raphael are major players, kingpins in the City, Roman is a veritable leviathan, with fingers in every pie in the country. Castiel simply can’t believe that Roman is only here because he’s invested in Dean’s movie.

“I haven’t even seen my brother or my nephew since I left,” Dean goes on. “Jack’s gotta be, what, thirteen by now. I’ve missed watching him grow up.”

Cas gives a start at the name and tries to disguise the movement by resuming his petting of Dean’s hair. A terrible thought occurs to him, the pieces beginning to come together: Jack, the need to speak to Dean, the desire to save the farm, even Roman’s presence. He swallows hard. 

“Thank god I have you,” Dean sighs. “You don’t know how close I was to throwing in the towel before you came along.”

“What would you have done instead?” Cas asks, his mind still whirring. He doesn’t know where to find Jack, is the point he keeps sticking on. How can he tell Dean his nephew was here, if he sent him away and has no idea how to find him?

Dean shrugs, a strange gesture while lying down. “Dunno. Go hire myself out as a farmhand, go somewhere no one knows me.”

Once, Cas had had contacts who could’ve tracked down one teenage boy with ease, but with his current place at Crowley’s mercy, he has no such resources. 

“I’m glad I met you instead,” Dean says, lifting a hand to cup Cas’s cheek. “I—” He clears his throat roughly. “Cas, you gotta know I’m in love with you.” He stubbornly holds Cas’s gaze, and Cas has to fight the urge to close his eyes in guilt. Instead he leans down and fits his mouth over Dean’s, trying to pour his emotions into the kiss. 

“I’m in love with you, too,” he mutters against Dean’s lips when they part. 

He lets Dean shift to a sitting position and pull him back into an embrace, but his mind is consumed by guilt.

*****

 

_ INT. MOVIE STUDIO—DAY _

_ An active movie set, inside a large hangar. The main soundstage is set up with a backdrop, in front of which DEAN and his fellow actors perform. The director, BALTHAZAR ROCHE, stands by the camera. Just off to one side sits the motorcycle that will be used in the next scene. CASTIEL stands ready nearby. Beyond is a craft services table, laden with food. Further in the depths of the hangar, other prep activity for the movie is underway. _

“Alright, Winchester, Walker, Barnes, hit your marks, and let’s go,” calls Balthazar Roche, the director who’s been tasked with Dean’s first film. “Ready? And… Action!”

Castiel lurks just to the side of the soundstage where they are filming, ready to fetch anything Dean might need at a moment’s notice. He also happens to be in the perfect position for Dean to throw him a wink when it’s not his coverage. Cas is still preoccupied with the question of Jack, but he holds Dean’s gesture close to his heart. 

Between takes, he brings Dean a towel to mop his forehead. 

“How’m I looking out there?” Dean asks. They’ve been filming for a few days now, but Dean just doesn’t seem convinced that his musical talent will carry over to acting.

“You’re doing very well,” Cas assures him as always.

Finally, they wrap the scene they’re shooting, and break to reset the soundstage for the big motorcycle scene. While they wait, Dean and Cas meander over to the craft services table.

“I’ve gotta say,” Dean says, shoving a pastrami sandwich in his mouth. “The food’s almost enough to convince me to forget music and take up acting full time.”

Cas hands him a napkin with a little hum. “What would your fans think if they could see you right now?”

Dean gives him a tiny shove. “Shut up. This is too delicious to eat slowly. You know what would be great with it, though?” His face breaks out in a grin. “That good whiskey.”

“I think you’ve got a bottle in your trailer,” Cas offers. “Want me to go get it?” 

“Yes,” Dean agrees enthusiastically. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Dean, I’m your assistant. I'm here to assist you.”

Dean glances around to make sure no one can hear them. “You know you’re so much more than that, right?”

Voice dry, Castiel responds, “Then you won’t mind sharing the whiskey.”

*****

 

Cas makes his way back towards the soundstage where they’re already setting up for the next scene. From a distance, he casually admires the way Dean straddles the motorbike.

“Look,” he hears Crowley say. A quick glance shows that he’s standing beside Dick Roman, both of them impeccable in their suits, and both clearly not intending to be overheard. “You can’t kill Winchester.”

Castiel goes stock still, hidden in the shadow of a large set piece.

“I think you’ll find,” Roman says in that dangerous tone of his, “That I can do whatever I want.”

“What I mean to say,” Crowley’s conciliatory tone doesn’t suit him one bit, “is that Winchester is my golden ticket. My cash cow, if you will. And as long as he’s here, making money for me—and for you, if you continue your investment—he’s not  _ there _ , interfering with your plans. Without his daddy or his brother to take care of the farm, Sam Winchester will sell and Dean will never even know about your resort.”

“You really think you can keep him under control?” Roman asks, and Castiel can hear the chill in the question.

“Trust me,” Crowley says. “It’s all taken care of. Winchester’s a simple man, as long as he’s kept happy, and Novak is keeping him happy.”

Castiel feels a sick curl of guilt in his gut. He’s deluded himself into believing that whatever it’s origins, his role in Dean’s life, his desire for Dean’s happiness, is a good thing and consequence free. The reminder that he’s been benefitting Crowley all this time shames him. He can’t even think about the implication in Crowley’s voice. Crowley can’t possibly know—but if he even suspected the relationship that would develop, and set Castiel in Dean’s sights deliberately—it doesn’t bear thinking about.

He’s so distracted by the haze of nauseating guilt, that he almost misses Roman’s next words. “Oh yes, the wayward Novak. Didn’t he betray his brother?” The implication is clear—how can Crowley trust Castiel not to turn on him?

“Don’t worry. I have him in the palm of my hand.”

_ Do you?  _ Castiel thinks viciously.

Dick Roman is apparently unconcerned and ready to move on. He pauses to examine his perfectly manicured fingernails and adjust his gold cufflinks. “There is, of course, the matter of the boy,” he remarks, sounding almost nonchalant.

“The matter of the boy?” Crowley repeats, and Roman’s mouth curls up at the corners like a satisfied cat, clearly pleased at having information that Crowley does not.

“Little Jack Winchester. Your ‘cash cow’s’ nephew. Thirteen-years-old, painfully earnest, and none too happy that his daddy wants to sell the farm.”

Crowley raises a supercilious eyebrow. “That doesn’t sound like a concern for  _ me.” _

“Hmm,” Roman hums. “Then you won’t be concerned that he is in the City now? Or that he’s already made two attempts to contact your golden ticket? You aren’t concerned about what will happen if he does speak to him, and begs him with tears in his big puppy dog eyes to save the farm? Because that would be both our investments up in smoke.”

“Ah,” Crowley says. “That is a different matter. I suppose the solution is obvious. We will simply have to take care of him.”

Roman tsks. “Such a shame. There is just so much criminal violence in the City these days, especially near the Lebanon hotel.”

“Oh, is that where he’s staying?” Crowley asks, conversationally.

“Rooms 404 and 402, with his companions. I had my men trail them when they left the farm. I suspected some kind of trouble.”

Crowley’s eyes darken. “How forward-thinking. I’ll have someone pay them a visit this evening. Now, it looks like they’re about ready to begin. Would you like to watch the filming? Balthazar Roche is a genius with a camera.”

The two kingpins stroll away, and Castiel is left in the shadows, digesting what he has heard. That Crowley and Roman have unsavoury motives is a given. That those plans involve keeping Dean ignorant and complacent is angering, but unsurprising. That they are prepared to have a child murdered, simply so he won’t interfere with their profits—Castiel is horrified. He turns over course of action after course of action in his mind, and one thing becomes clear.

He has to tell Dean.


	8. Chapter 8

Balthazar Roche makes an affronted noise as Cas strides onto the set while the camera is rolling. Ignoring his squawk, Cas hurries straight to where Dean is perched on the motorcycle in front of a moving background.

“I need to tell you something,” Cas hisses for Dean’s ears only. “Now.”

His urgency must be clear in his voice. Dean’s eyebrows raise. “What’s up?” He starts to swing his leg over the seat to dismount the bike.

“Do not leave the set!” Balthazar barks. “He’s already ruined my shot, so he can stay right there and say what he needs to say, and then we can get back to filming right away.” He waves his hands and turns away from the camera in a huff.

“Dean,” Cas says, pitching his voice low, so as not to be overheard. “Crowley and Roman, they want to kill your nephew.”

“What?” Dean says.

Cas hisses, “Your nephew, Jack. He’s in the City. He came to speak to you, and Crowley and Roman are planning to kill him before he can.”

Dean stares at him. “Why the hell would they want to kill a kid?”

Castiel swallows. “They think you’ll leave the City if he manages to speak to you. Crowley wants you to stay, so he can keep making money off you. That’s why he made me your assistant, told me to befriend you.” He winces at the flash of hurt across Dean’s face. “But that’s not why I have come to care for you. And Roman wants you to stay away, so he can buy the farm from your brother and build his resort. Jack came to ask you to save the farm.”

“How do you know all this?”

Castiel glances away, shamed. “I overheard Crowley and Roman talking just now. But Jack—” he braces himself to reveal the truth. “—Jack came to see you. A few nights ago. I found him in your dressing room. I didn’t know who he was. I didn’t believe him. I—I made him leave.”

“Cas,” Dean hisses.

Despite his misery, Castiel presses on. “I did figure it out. But by then, I didn’t know where he’d gone or where to find him.”

Dean’s mouth presses into a thin line, and Cas can practically see the rapid calculations going on behind his eyes. “But now you do,” he says at last.

“What?”

“Now you know where to find him.”

“Yes. Roman had him followed. The Lebanon hotel. Rooms 402 and 404. He’s not here alone. But Dean, they’re sending someone after him tonight.”

A spark of decision lights up Dean’s face. His hand clamps onto Cas’s forearm. “No, they’re not. We,” he says, “are not done talking about this. But for now—” Without further preamble, he swings Cas onto the motorcycle behind him and revs the engine. “Let’s go save my nephew.”

Cas has just enough warning to wrap his arms around Dean’s waist, before the motorcycle roars to life, leaping off the set.

“Come back here,” Balthazar shouts, but Dean is already hooking a sharp left and making for the open studio doors.

“Stop them!” Crowley bellows, his goons leaping into action. “But don’t hurt his face!”

“Shit!” Dean exclaims, veering wildly as a shot hits the concrete right beside the tires of the bike. With a growl, Cas releases one of his arms from around Dean’s waist, half-twisting to take a gun from his own waistband and fire back at their pursuers, kneecapping one and taking out the tires on another of the motorcycles that appears in the film, now being ridden by one of the henchmen. “Why the hell do you have that thing?” he demands.

“Get close to one of the guards, I’ll get you one, too.”

The goons continue firing, in hot pursuit.

“I said I need him in one piece!” Crowley shouts after them.

With a world-weary sigh, Balthazar shuts down his camera. “I could be in bed with twelve women right now,” he remarks to no one in particular.

*****

 

_ EXT. STUDIO LOT—DAY _

_ The studio lot is mostly full of vehicles and equipment. At the far end, across from the studio hangar, a small guardhouse stands next to a partially open gate. Two SECURITY GUARDS stand outside by this gate. _

Dean and Cas burst through the giant studio doors, and tear through the lot. As they come to the gates, Dean veers close to one of the bewildered-looking guards, and Cas leans over, one hand holding tight to Dean for stability, snatching the gun right out of the guard’s holster. 

“Ever shot one of these?” he shouts to Dean as they make a left onto the City streets. 

“Hunting rifle,” Dean shouts back.

Cas eyes the handgun he grabbed. “Close enough. Take a right down this alley; it’s a shortcut.”

They turn sharply, their pursuers speeding past and having to reverse course to catch up with them. They take another alley, tearing down a clothesline as they go. Cas fires a few more shots, taking out a pair of tires. The resulting mess gives them the lead they need to race the rest of the way to the shabby Lebanon hotel unhindered.

They dismount the bike and let it drop against the curb, abandoned. Dean mourns the damage to its paint, but there’s no time to wait for Crowley’s muscle to catch up. Cas presses the gun he’d snatched into Dean’s hand. They pound into the lobby and past the flummoxed desk clerk, skipping the elevator in favour of taking the stairs two at a time.

Room 402 is the closest to the stairs. Dean pounds on the door, but Castiel just reaches past him and turns the handle. The door swings wide.

*****

 

_ INT. HOTEL ROOM—DAY _

_ CHARLIE and JACK are in the room, playing cards at the little table, with both doors shut. There’s a pounding on the door, and then the main door swings open to admit DEAN and CASTIEL. _

“What’s happening?” Charlie yelps as Dean and Cas barrel through the hotel room door.

“Uncle Dean!” Jack exclaims, sounding overjoyed.

“Hey, Jack.” Dean waves, but he’s busy taking a position just behind the door jam, ready to fire out the door. “Better get down, behind that bed, okay?”

“Gabriel!” Castiel yelps, as Gabriel and Bobby pour through the adjoining door to see what all the commotion is about.

Gabriel startles, but recovers quickly. “Hey, little bro,” he greets.

_ Little bro, _ Dean mouths, but a pounding from below jolts them all into action.

"What's happening?" Charlie demands.

“Long story,” Dean says, “but you’ve managed to piss off Dick Roman pretty good, kiddo.”

“Roman’s working with Crowley,” Cas informs Gabriel, just before a group of henchmen bursts out of the stairwell at the end of the hall.

Gabriel’s grin is feral. “Let’s take them down.” He pulls a gun of his own from its hidden spot beneath his suit jacket.

“Why do you have that?” Charlie demands, already ducking down behind the bed with Jack. Then, as the goons figure out what room they’re in, “Nevermind. Got one for me and Bobby?”

Gabriel hits the nearest goon in the forearm, sending his gun spinning neatly into the room. “Got one.” Cas kneecaps another and snatches the gun from his hand as he goes down. “Here’s another.”  He cheerfully brings the butt of his gun down on the man’s head, effectively knocking him out.

Crowley and Roman must have recruited more henchmen, because waves of them keep coming. The five adults work like a well-oiled machine, while Jack dutifully stays hidden behind the bed. It’s as good a time as any, Cas decides, to get answers.

“Where the hell have you been?” Cas demands of his brother, refilling his clip.

Gabriel peers around the doorframe, takes aim, fires. “Sorry, little bro. After that unpleasantness with Luke and Mikey, I thought it was best to skip town.”  _ That unpleasantness,  _ now that’s an understatement if Castiel ever heard one. His brother continues, “Been laying low in a quaint little one-horse town. You ought to try it.” He fires another two shots at Crowley’s henchmen.

“Luke and Michael got themselves locked up for that stunt,” Castiel growls. “I was left to deal with the fallout with Raphael alone.” A henchman makes it to the doorway, and he quickly pistol whips him across the temple, dropping him like a stone.

Gabe whistles, “Yeah, I heard about that.” 

“I thought you were laying low.”

“I was. Doesn’t mean I don’t still have my sources.” Gabriel taps the side of his nose. “Gotta say, only you would try to make the whole family go legit. You’ve got balls, baby brother, I’ll give you that.”

“How bout you give me a hand with this douchebag,” Dean growls from where he is grappling with a beefy figure of a man, who has somehow made it past their fire and into the room.

Before Cas or Gabriel can give him a hand, Charlie gets in on the fray, red hair flying like a banner, all sharp elbows and fierce anger. Between her and Dean, it isn’t long before the man is down and neatly hogtied. Charlie dusts off her hands. “I used to do rodeos,” she shrugs.

Finally, all but the last few of Crowley’s thugs are incapacitated in one way or another, and the few remaining are facing down a losing battle.

“Stop.” A voice cuts through the air, cool and controlled, halting everyone where they are. In dawning horror, they take in the scene before them: Dick Roman has an arm around Jack’s throat and a gun to his temple. Jack’s eyes are wide and scared. The door to the adjoining room is still open, and the front door of that room is open to the hall—Roman must have snuck through that way while they were distracted by the firefight at the door. 

Dean makes a move towards him, but Roman presses the barrel of the gun harder against Jack’s temple. Jack whimpers. Dean stills.

“Thank you,” Roman says, all false politeness and boardroom smiles. Down below, a door opens and thuds shut. Footsteps make their way up the stairs. “Now, what to do with you thorns in my side?” His lips spread into a nasty grin as he sweeps his eyes over them.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Gabriel and Castiel Novak. In one place, even. Wouldn’t your brother Raphael be interested to know where you’ve been.”

He slides his predatory gaze over to Dean and tsks. “Dean, Dean, Dean. All you had to do was keep your pretty face out of this. Now, unfortunately, my business associate has quite a bit of money riding on you, so he wants you unharmed, but your film is such a minor investment for me, that I can stand the loss. So,” he shakes his head, “if you don’t cooperate, well, accidents happen.

“The real problem, of course,” he continues conversationally, “is this interfering brat.” He gives Jack a shake. “Now, I could give you orders to go home and keep your mouth shut, encourage your daddy to sell to me, but I don’t think you will. So here’s how this is going to go. I am going to shoot you. One of these gentlemen—” he sweeps his eyes over the less injured of the henchmen “—will leave your body in an alley. So tragic, the crime on these streets. Your little country friends will go home and tell your daddy the tale. A mugging gone wrong. They should never have brought you to the city. In his grief, your father won’t hesitate to sell me the farm. Got it?” 

Dean snarls and Charlie looks ready to rip into Roman with her bare hands. Bobby, Castiel and Gabriel all glare in defiance. 

Roman takes the gun from Jack’s temple to point it at each of them in turn. “Or I could just kill you all right now.”

“Oh, we’ve got it alright,” says a voice from behind Roman, as the barrel of a gun nudges into the back of his head. “So why don’t you drop that gun, Mr. Roman, and come with us.”

With his shark-like grin seemingly frozen on his face, Roman lowers the gun and lets it drop to the floor. With the other arm, he releases his grip on Jack. A policewoman with short, dark hair claps him in cuffs, while her partner, a kind-looking blonde woman checks Jack over for injuries and produces a candybar seemingly from nowhere to comfort him.

The dark-haired officer looks around at the gathered group. “Perhaps you’d like to accompany us down to the station,” she invites. “I think Mr. Roman here’s given us everything we need, but I’m sure your statements will be interesting. And maybe the King could sign some autographs while he’s there. I can think of a few of the boys in blue who’d like that.”


	9. Chapter 9

_ INT. POLICE STATION—DAY _

_ DEAN and CASTIEL sit on hard chairs in the waiting area of a busy police station. Nearby, Jack sits on a chair beside the blonde policewoman’s desk, eating a chocolate bar she gave him. BOBBY and CHARLIE are talking with the dark-haired policewoman by the corner of the waiting area. Through a window, we can see that GABRIEL is giving his statement to another police officer.  _

It’s been a long day. Castiel can’t help but slump a little in the hard waiting room chair. From the early morning on set, to the desperate race to get to Jack, to the shootout in the hotel room, and then down here to the station to book Roman and his henchmen and deliver their own statements, the exhaustion is taking its toll on him. 

Jack had gone first, to get the ordeal out of the way, then Dean, then Cas. Charlie and Bobby had gone next, and despite his best efforts to make a slick exit, Gabriel is bringing up the rear. At one point, they’d watched Crowley be led past them in cuffs, practically spitting, and demanding that the arresting officer be careful with his suit—“It’s imported! It cost more than you could dream of making!”

It’s been a long day, and there is a conversation still to be had that will undoubtedly make it even longer. Castiel is exhausted and disheartened just thinking about it. How can he ever explain to Dean? How can he ever apologize? 

So far, he’s managed to avoid Dean’s gaze all through Charlie and Bobby giving their statements. Selfishly, he wants to put if off just a little longer, to give himself just that much more time before he inevitably loses the man he loves. But Dean’s eyes are heavy on him, and he knows there’s no more avoiding what needs to be said.

“I suppose I should explain myself,” he says to his hands, the words falling like lead. 

“Yeah,” Dean says, “you should.” His handsome mouth, which Cas has kissed a hundred times, is twisted into a frown. Despite the noise and bustle of the station around them, it feels like Cas and Dean are in a bubble of quiet all their own.

“I didn’t set out to hurt you. Please believe that.”

Dean makes a noncommittal noise. 

Castiel sighs and squeezes his eyes tight, holds them closed until lights swim behind his eyelids. “You already know how I came to be working for Crowley. And you know that all I really wanted to do was write music.” His shoulders heave up and down as he takes a deep breath before continuing. “He told me he’d let me write your songs if I befriended you, kept you happy. It seemed harmless enough.”

Dean’s expression is dark and withdrawn, brow furrowed, mouth tight. Hurt. Castiel’s chest aches. “So you became my friend because Crowley told you to,” Dean drawls. “Did you even like me at all?”

“Of course,” Castiel protests, but honesty gets the best of him. His shoulders slump. “Not at first,” he admits. Dean makes a noise like a bitter little laugh, and Castiel can’t stand it. “But I was wrong about you, Dean. So wrong. I knew almost immediately. Except for the very beginning, my friendship was genuine. My feelings—”

Dean shushes him abruptly with an upheld palm. “You can’t say that here!” With a jolt, Castiel realizes they’re still in public, in a police station of all places. He accepts the reprimand, but continues, sotto voce.

“I won’t say it, then, but Dean, please believe that  _ that,  _ all of that, was true. Is true.” For the first time in the conversation, he dares to meet Dean’s eyes, praying that Dean can read the depth of his feelings in his gaze.

Dean swallows, without breaking eye contact. “Say I believe you, what about Jack? What about this mess with Dick Roman?”

_ That  _ at least puts Castiel back on solid ground. “I knew nothing about Roman’s plans. I had no idea he was involved at all, not until you did. I was able to justify going along with Crowley’s plan, because I believed, as much as you did, that there was nothing for you to go back to. What could it hurt to keep you happy here, so long as you  _ were _ happy? And when I first met Jack, I had no idea who he was. All I knew was that a fan had snuck into your dressing room, and a child who had no business being in the club, at that. It wasn’t until you told me that the farm hadn’t been sold after all that I put two and two together, and by then, I thought it was too late. I didn’t know how to tell you, so I said nothing at all.” He ducks his head, ashamed, then looks up when Dean’s knee knocks against his.

“Hey,” Dean says, his expression visibly softening. “But you did tell me as soon as Jack was in danger. And you did save his life. And I really  _ was _ an ass to you when you started as my assistant. So, I’m not saying it wasn’t messed up, but: apology accepted.”

Hope washes through Castiel’s chest in a cascade. “You’d be willing to forgive me?”

Dean’s mouth quirks into a crooked smile, and he contrives to bump the fingers of his hand against Castiel’s in a gesture that would look innocuous to anyone watching. “I would. Besides, those feelings you can’t talk about here? I have them too. And as soon as we’re done here, I’ll find somewhere private to express them to you.”

Castiel is still radiant when Gabriel is released from the interview room. Gabriel raises a curious eyebrow at his younger brother, but makes no remark. Instead he gathers their little group around him and announces, “Come on, amigos! Dinner’s on me.”

*****

 

_ INT. CASTIEL’S APARTMENT—NIGHT _

_ The apartment looks much the same as last time we saw it. The bed is neatly made. Papers are scattered over the table—Cas’s prolific songwriting efforts—and the guitar is propped in the wooden chair before the typewriter. DEAN and CASTIEL enter through the front door. _

Dean and Castiel don’t manage to get alone immediately. Gabriel’s invitation reminds them how long it’s been since any of them have eaten—minus Jack and his candy bar, of course.

Then there’s the matter of the hotel room. No one can sleep there, of course, but they have to head back and gather everyone’s things. Thankfully the police have concluded their investigation of the rooms, and they are free to collect their belongings. The question of where they will sleep is resolved when Dean offers up his penthouse. 

They go there next to get their guests settled in, and that’s when Dean declares that, in the interest of not not crowding anyone, he will join Cas back at his apartment for the night.

“You realize that my apartment is very tiny,” Cas points out under his breath as they settle in to the back of a cab. 

“I didn’t realize,” Dean retorts. “You’ve never let me see it.” A smile dances on his lips. “Don’t worry, I’m sure we can make do.” Hidden from the driver’s rear view mirror, he winks at Cas.

Still, he whistles low when they emerge in front of Cas’s building. “Has Crowley seriously been letting you live like this?”

Castiel feels a flush heat his cheeks. “I’m laying low, remember?”

Dean must accept the mild chastisement, because once they’ve made it up the stairs and let themselves into Castiel’s apartment, his tune has changed. “It’s not that bad,” he pronounces, taking in the cramped space. “It’s cozy.”

Castiel laughs at his save. “We’ll certainly be cozy in that bed.” He indicates the single bed that takes up one corner of the room.

Dean smirks. “That I can work with. C’mere.” He cups Cas’s face and draws him into a kiss. “Thank you,” he says as they draw apart, just enough to rest their foreheads together, “for helping me save Jack. I’m glad you didn’t get hurt.”

“I would do whatever I needed to protect you and the people you love, Dean.”

“You dork.” Dean kisses him again. “You’re one of those people, you know. But,” he adds, backing off with a playful wag of his finger and spreading himself out on Cas’s bed, “I seem to recall that you have some things to apologize for, and I have the perfect way for you to make it up to me.” He holds Cas’s gaze as he slowly, deliberately pops the button of his fly.

Castiel shakes his head fondly. Really, he is so lucky that he still has this. So, who is he to argue?

Feeling slightly more emotional than Dean had probably intended, he crosses to the bed, and lowers himself beside Dean, taking his hand, eyes wide and serious. “Anything,” he promises. “Anything at all, Dean.”

The kiss he presses to Dean’s lips is fervent, and attempt to pour all his feelings into Dean’s mouth. Dean sighs into it, and Castiel moves, nibbling down the line of Dean’s jaw and pressing reverent kisses down his neck.

“God, Cas.” Dean’s hands clutch on Cas’s hips, and he pauses in his ministrations to lift Dean’s shirt over his head, Dean half sitting up to help.”You know you don’t really need to make anything up to me, right?” he asks on shaky breaths, as Cas strokes lips and fingers down his chest, paying particular attention to the sensitive skin of his sides, that one spot that makes Dean arch into his hands.

“But I want to.” Castiel’s own voice is ragged, even as he finishes unfastening Dean’s pants, and removing them along with everything else. “Please, Dean.” He mouths at one beautiful hipbone. “I need you to believe how much I love you.”

“Oh, I believe you, sweetheart.” Dean moans as Cas takes him in his mouth, fingers clenching in his perpetually messy hair. “Oh god, Cas, you feel so good.”

Castiel closes his eyes and gives himself over to this act of worship, bobbing his head, letting Dean guide his motions, and relishing the taste of him, the weight of him in his mouth. Dean’s sounds of pleasure spur him on, and all he wants to do, all he ever wants to do, is to make this man as happy as he deserves.

Panting, hips moving restlessly, Dean manages to unclench one hand from Castiel’s hair. He uses it to cup his cheek, oh so gently, and Castiel’s eyes fly open to catch on Dean’s own weighty gaze. He whimpers around his mouthful and doesn't look away as he renews his efforts.

“God, I love you, Cas,” Dean breaths as his climax washes over him and he spills in Cas’s mouth. “I love you. I love you.” Castiel swallows around him. “Come back with me. Come back home with me.”

The love in his eyes and the plea in his voice are too much to bear. With a gasp, Castiel pulls off, just as his own orgasm breaks over him. “Dean,” he pants into the sweat damp skin of Dean’s hip. “Of course, Dean. Anything.”

He shudders, all his muscles going lax as he slumps against Dean. He’s a boneless mess, and yet Dean strokes fingers through his hair, toying softly with the strands, impossibly fond.

“You mean it?” Dean asks, a smile in his voice. “You’ll come home to the farm with me?”

“Yes.” Castiel fights the urge to purr like an overgrown cat. “I’ll go with you.”

*****

 

Dick Roman may be powerful, but even he can’t wiggle out of attempting to murder a thirteen-year-old boy, not when he was caught red-handed. It doesn’t hurt that the arresting officers, Jody Mills and Donna Hanscum have a reputation for being the most incorruptible cops in the City. Add in testimony from a beloved celebrity like the King, and it’s an open-and-shut case—the cell door opens, and then it shuts on Roman, seemingly for good.

Crowley ends up serving jail time, too, though with less hard evidence, they can’t pin any murder attempts on him. For all his complaints about the accommodations, he has the relative freedom to continue to direct at least the legitimate side of his business from behind bars, which means that in addition to his own money that he liberates from Crowley’s control, Dean also starts receiving royalties for his recordings. It’s enough that, come flood or drought or locusts, the farm will be able to carry on for years to come.

A sheepish Charlie, Bobby, and Gabriel return Jack to his father, who is torn between being livid and being proud. Thankfully, the news that he will soon be reunited with his brother—and that Dean plans to take the farm off his hands—goes a long way towards swaying him to leniency. 

Jack still ends up grounded for several months, and Gabriel makes a point of losing at poker for just as long.

Dean himself stays in the city just long enough to finish filming the movie. Despite Balthazar’s increasingly creative threats to quit, he has a  _ vision _ , and as long as Crowley continues financing him from jail, by god is he going to realize it.

Still acting as Dean’s PA, Cas takes this time to have the contents of Dean’s penthouse packed or sold. Dean doesn’t have much use for the modern art or modern furniture Crowley had picked out, but he has a collection of expensive guitars and a  _ really  _ nice mattress that he is adamant will be coming home with him to the farm. 

Cas packs up his own apartment, too. With the vacuum of power left by two of his biggest rivals being in prison, Raphael has bigger things to occupy himself with than one wayward younger sibling, but Castiel wants nothing more than to be done with mob politics for good. Gabriel offers him a place to stay, but Cas waves him off. “Thank you, but Dean has offered me a place as a farmhand. The hard work will be good for me.” In truth, Cas simply doesn’t wish to be parted from Dean.

Dean feels the same way, he assures him when they have a final tryst in Dean’s trailer before filming wraps. They’ll be departing for the farm in the morning, and don’t know when they’ll next have privacy to do this. “But we’re going to be together,” Dean tells him. “And that’s the important part.”

With Dean at the helm, the farm prospers. Cas takes quickly to the hands-on work, and he and Dean are rarely far apart. Their little family can’t be unaware of their relationship, but they take it in stride. Charlie, for her part, winks broadly when she catches them standing a little too close, and it’s not long before she starts bringing Dorothy Baum from the local watering hole around. 

With the farm in his brother’s capable hands, Sam goes back to working as a lawyer. He doesn’t move to the City, though. Instead, he sets up an office in town, and finds plenty of clients in local farmers looking to protect their interests from the next Dick Roman. He and Jack continue to live on the farm, much to Jack’s delight, though as Jack continues to grow into a lanky teenage frame, the family all works together to build a separate house just for father and son.

In the evenings, they sit on the porch, and Dean plays guitar, usually songs that Cas wrote. And when a contract comes, offering Dean a career in country music with Cas as his dedicated song-writer, well, they’ve got a lawyer on their side this time, and a home base, and all the time in the world to sing.

*****

 

_ EXT. BARNYARD—DAY _

_ The house and barn are returned to their former pristine condition. It’s a sunny day. An older JACK (seventeen) is framed in the open hayloft doors. DEAN stands down below, next to Bobby’s pickup truck. All is right with the world. _

“Hey, Uncle Dean!” Jack chucks a bale of hay down from the loft, and Dean catches it expertly and stacks it in the back of the pickup truck. At seventeen, Jack is still as full of enthusiasm and sunshine as always. 

“Hey yourself, kiddo,” Dean calls back.

“Are you really gonna leave me in charge of the farm while you go record your album?”

“Sure,” Dean agrees easily. “You and Charlie and Bobby, you’re all in charge. Just don’t sell my farm out from under me, and we’re all good.”

And they were.


End file.
